HONEY  AND  GALL 


POEMS. 


BY 

FRANCIS    S.   SALTUS. 


PHILADELPHIA: 
J.    B.   LIPPINCOTT    &    CO. 

1873. 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1873,  by 

FRANCIS    S.   SALTUS, 
In  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress  at  Washington. 


Je  suis  comme  le  roi  d'un  pays  pluvieux, 

Riche,  mais  impuissant,  jeune  et  pourtant  tres-vieux, 

Qui,  de  ses  precepteurs  meprisant  les  courbettes, 

S'ennuie  avec  ses  chiens  comme  avec  d'autres  betes. 

Rien  ne  peut  1'egayer,  ni  gibier,  ni  faucon, 

Ni  son  peuple  mourant  en  face  du  balcon. 

Du  bouffon  favori  la  grotesque  ballade 

Ne  distrait  plus  le  front  de  ce  cruel  malade  ; 

Son  lit  fleurdelise  se  transforme  en  tombeau, 

Et  les  dames  d'atour,  pour  qui  tout  prince  est  beau, 

Ne  savent  plus  trouver  d'impudique  toilette 

Pour  tirer  un  souris  de  ce  jeune  squelette. 

Le  savant  qui  lui  fait  de  1'or  n'a  jamais  pu 

De  son  etre  extirper  1'element  corrompu, 

Et  dans  ces  bains  de  sang  qui  des  Remains  nous  viennent, 

Et  dont  sur  leurs  vieux  jours  les  puissants  se  souviennent, 

II  n'a  su  rechauffer  ce  cadavre  hebete 

Ou  coule  au  lieu  de  sang,  1'eau  verte  du  Lethe. 

BAUDELAIRE. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

Proem   ............  9 

The  Owl ii 

Spirits  of  Sin ....  14 

Pantheism     ...........  15 

Perfumes        ...........  18 

Oblivion 21 

Lacquer-Work      ..........  22 

Stanzas 23 

The  Skeleton  Sexton 24 

To 26 

Goya 27 

Dream  of  Ice         .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .31 

Sleep 33 

Spleen 34 

Profile 35 

Escurial         ...........  36 

The  Face  in  the  Fire 36 

Bergenheim 39 

The  Ballad  of  Gastoun          ........  40 

Venice 47 

Phryne' 49 

Non  Credo 51 

Spleen 54 

Arabesque     ......  55 

Spirit  Voices .  61 

Canzone 63 

5 


8  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

An  Answer           ........'..  192 

The  Fir 213 

The  Succube       ..........  215 

Dialogue     ...........  217 

Souls  of  Flowers 222 

Cordova       ...........  223 

On  the  Beach 226 

Landscape  of  Flesh 227 


PROEM. 

THIS,  the  song  of  my  blood  and  the  singing — 

Of  pains,  I  now  offer  to  please. 
What  I  bring  in  the  seed  is  the  bringing 

Of  fruits  that  will  ripen  and  ease 
Bitter  thoughts,  by  a  perfume  close  clinging, 

By  these  rhyme-storms,  like  turbulent  seas. 

I  sing  of  strange  songs  and  the  wringing 

Of  hands  in  fatidical  zeal, — 
Of  great  gloom-throated  bells,  ever  ringing 

With  wild  poems  of  bronze  till  they  reel. 
I  sing  of  all  terrors  hell-springing, 

And  I  sing  of  our  woe  and  our  weal. 

Like  a  bee  on  a  tulip-leaf  swinging, 
I  extract  all  the  juice  and  the  meat, 

All  the  dross  and  the  dew,  nothing  flinging — 
Aside,  whether  good  or  effete. 

For  are  bees  to  be  shunned  for  their  stinging, 
If  their  honey  is  luscious  and  sweet  ? 


THE    OWL. 

ALLEGORICAL     OF     PARIS     AND     THE     COMMUNE. 

AN  ebon  night  had  masked  the  sky, 
Great  hueless  clouds  soared  grimly  by, 
They  seemed  to  moan,  they  seemed  to  sigh — 

With  sullen  ire. 

For,  in  a  dream,  I  sought  the  gloom 
Of  shadows,  light  as  downy  plume, 
Urging  me  to  an  awful  doom 

Of  flame  and  fire. 

O'er  jagged  thorny  burs  I  sped, 
Coiled  vipers'  fangs  with  poison  bled, 
Filling  my  anxious  soul  with  dread, 

Vast-eyed,  supreme. 
While  sinking  deep  in  boggy  sod 
My  feet  on  spotted  toadlets  trod, 
As  at  a  frantic  pace  I  plod, 

Still  in  a  dream. 

Methought  a  grassy  mound  I  spied  ; 
But  no  !  my  sunken  eyes  had  lied ; 
For  baffled,  on  the  ground  I  cried 

In  vain  for  help. 

A  gummy  dew  oozed  from  an  oak 
Where  hideous  frogs,  with  brazen  croak, 
Hell-elfs  and  gnomes,  their  ghouls  invoke 

With  yaup  and  yelp. 


12  THE    OWL. 

My  seething  brain  could  find  no  rest, 
Consumed  by  ardent  fiery  zest ; 
Like  scorpion  sting,  like  Orient  pest, 

Raved  I  as  wild. 

Till  heaven  recalled  its  meekest  boon, 
And  through  the  glade  an  opal  moon, 
With  oafish  glee — round-faced  loon  ! — 

Wickedly  smiled. 

From  foxy  stench,  from  leafy  glen, 
From  musty  acorn,  gluish  fen, 
From  fulvid  badgers'  tainted  den, 

I  wildly  fled  ; 

While  ghastly,  yexing  birds  of  prey, 
Huge,  crested  vultures,  death-fowls  gray, 
Who  hell  and  Satan  still  obey, 

Whirred  o'er  my  head. 

Why  do  I  tremble  ?  why  that  stare  ? 
Do  you  not  see  it  gazing  there, 
Silently  waiting  for  its  share 

Of  sinning  blood  ? 
An  Owl,  with  oval,  lurid  eye, 
Utt'ring  its  solemn,  dismal  cry, 
Warning  me  that  I  came  to  die 

In  fecal  mud ! 

Yes  !   'tis  an  owl,  with  ashy  plume, 
Whose  fretful  beak  begins  to  fume' 
For  bodies  from  a  fresh-dug  tomb, 
To  swell  its  feast ! 


THE    OWL. 

To  warp  and  mangle  flesh  and  bone, 
Whether  of  harlot,  king,  or  crone, 
Till  thirsty  lust  for  blood  alone 
Had  ever  ceased. 

I  saw  it  leer,  I  saw  it  grin, 
It  hooted  me  for  every  sin, 
And  whizzed  about  with  horrid  din, 

From  tree  to  tree. 
Its  gleaming  eyes  began  to  gloat, 
Its  venomed  claws  sank  in  my  throat, 
Forced  me,  by  fetid  breath,  to  bloat — 

With  agony  ! 

The  night-fiend  held  me  in  its  clasp, 
And  stung  and  sucked  like  amber  asp, 
While  in  its  damp  and  putrid  grasp 

My  life-veins  bled  ! 
It  rustled  like  a  tocsin  knell, 
Its  mournful  whine  and  withering  smell 
Was  like  a  demon's,  deep  in  hell, 

Shuddering  of  dread  ! 

The  nauseous  bird  had  clutched  me  fast 
Another  second  was  my  last, 
Had  I  not  round  its  necklet  ghast 

Pressed  my  mad  nails. 
With  reeking  mouth  I  bit  its  jowl, 
Till  half  the  hairy-faced  fowl 
Sank  in  the  mire  with  fright-toned  howl 

And  human  wails  ! 

******* 
?* 


SPIRITS   OF  SIN. 

On  waking  from  this  odious  dream 
I  saw  the  bright  sun  gently  gleam, 
With  many  a  golden,  dazzling  beam, 

Upon  the  floor. 

Weary,  oppressed,  with  sleep  replete, 
I  rose  the  morning  rays  to  greet, 
But  fainted ;  for  my  hands  and  feet 

Were  red  with  gore  ! 


SPIRITS    OF    SIN. 

GLANCE  with  the  vivid  azure  of  thine  eyes, 

O'erarched  by  curving  brows  of  glossy  jet, 
Down  on  my  lips,  still  roscid  with  the  prize 
They  captured  from  thy  fragrant  coral  wet. 
Flash  like  a  steel  blade  tipped  with  fire, 

Flash  with  thy  luxuries  of  light ; 
Into  my  soul's  gloom  let  thy  gaze 

Bathe,  till  grown  dizzy  by  the  sight, 
Sin's  spirits  shroud  in  mantles  of  delight 
Our  ardent  ken  in  one  delirious  daze. 

Fast  on  thy  shoulders,  rounded,  fleecy  pure, 

Sting  the  hot  kisses  thou  wouldst  check  in  vain  ; 
Looped  on  those  charms  that  would  a  saint  allure, 
Soft  will  I  lie,  till  happiness  is  pain. 

Then  will  thy  drooping  lash  of  silk  » 

Hide  thy  eyes'  else  too  potent  gleam ; 


PANTHEISM.  15 

Then  will  the  splendors  of  thy  gaze 
Pierce  deeper  in  thy  joy  supreme. 
Sin's  spirits  hover  while  we  fondly  dream, 
And  gently  o'er  our  heads  their  gray  wings  raise. 

So  on  through  life ;  ecstatic  moments  sweet, 
No  godlier  gift  ask  I  when  by  thee  warmed 
Each  burning  face  can  a  more  burning  meet, 
So  suavely  rapt,  and  by  each  other  charmed. 
So  let  us  live  until  the  force 

Of  youth  is  drained  from  inner  core, 
Long  sleepless  nights,  long  languid  days, 

Till  by  loved  surfeit  all  is  o'er. 
Sin's  spirits  then  will  guard  us  evermore, 
To  prove  that  our  sweet  life  was  one  of  praise. 


PANTHEISM. 

DESPITE  the  priest,  despite  the  sage, 

Despite  the  lore  of  eld, 
I  feel  that  in  a  by-gone  age 
Our  souls,  by  an  almighty  mage, 

Were  in  strange  prisons  held. 

I  feel  that  love  was  not  unknown 

To  mute  and  silent  things  : 
That  ardor  lurked  within  a  stone, 
That  marble  felt  each  varied  tone, 
The  scale  of  passion  sings. 


PANTHEISM. 

In  that  suave  age  of  tranquil  days 

When  everything  was  soul, 
The  amorous  sun  with  golden  blaze 
Showered  down  on  earth  its  glorious  rays, 

Flooding  it  pole  to  pole. 

The  brooklet  bubbled  o'er  with  love 

For  rushes  on  its  edge  : 
Perched  on  an  oak-tree's  bough  above, 
A  mottled  queest  and  tender  dove 

Exchanged  their  cooing  pledge. 

Each  star  and  cloud,  each  leaf  and  flower, 

Each  grass-blade  steeped  in  dew, 
By  unknown  gods  received  as  dower 
The  will,  the  sense,  the  nerve,  and  power 
To  love  as  mortals  do. 

Pearl,  coral,  jasper,  gold,  and  sand, 

Gems  hued  in  glitt'ring  grace, 
Obeyed  the  great  Creator's  hand, 
And  lived  and  loved  in  every  land, 
Smiling  before  his  face. 

But  years  and  time  bring  on  decay, 

Fair  gems  no  longer  sigh  ; 
Both  flowers  and  rushes  fade  away, — 
Vermine  and  rust  command  their  prey, 

And  marble  love  must  die. 

Metamorphosis  strange  and  sweet ! 
Wondrous  yet  solemn  death  ! 


PANTHEISM. 

The  essences  of  dead  loves  meet, — 
To  bud  anew  our  souls  to  greet 
With  fresh  and  virile  breath. 

While  all  an  unknown  world  of  bliss, 

A  universe  of  soul ! 
Revives  beneath  kind  nature's  kiss 
And  lives  another  life  in  this, 

With  pleasure  as  a  goal. 

Thou  whom  I  love, — thy  love  was  known 

In  that  fair  age  gone  by : 
Was  it  the  love  of  gem  or  stone  ? 
Was  it  the  love  of  waves  alone  ? 

Was  it  the  zephyr's  sigh? 

Those  radiant  orbs  my  senses  prize, 

Six  thousand  years  ago, 
Shone  as  twin-stars  in  vaulted  skies, 
Then  fell  to  earth  to  form  thine  eyes, 

Thine  eyes  of  opal  glow. 

'Neath  Ceylon's  reefs,  a  coral  bed, 

Six  thousand  years  ago, 
Detached  by  billows  as  they  sped, 
Has  formed  thy  lips  of  ruddy  red 

By  changes  strange  and  slow. 

A  bunch  of  pearlets  'neath  the  tide, 

Six  thousand  years  ago, 
Was  moulded  when  its  spirit  died 
To  form  thy  teeth,  thy  nacker  pride, 

Those  teeth  thoti  lov'st  to  show. 


1 8  PERFUMES. 

Aroused  from  out  a  crumbling  rest 

Six  thousand  years  ago, 
The  granite's  love  again  is  blessed, 
By  breathing  in  thy  virgin  breast, — 

That  breast  as  white  as  snow. 

I  feel  secure  that  far  in  space, 

Six  thousand  years  ago, 
I  saw  and  loved  a  cherub  face. — 
I  died,  alas  !  and  lost  the  trace, 

But  found  it  here  below. 

Descending  from  another  sphere, 

Six  thousand  years  ago, 
Perhaps  I  loved  thee  there  as  here ; 
In  which  world  was  my  love  most  dear  ?- 

Thy  soul  alone  can  If  now  ! 


PERFUMES. 

PERFUMES,  like  sounds  and  colors,  lend 

A  subtle  charm  to  art : 
Their  mystic  fragrances  can  blend 
With  occult  thrills  of  heart ; 

While  odorous  fumes  ascend, 
Fixed  soulward,  and  impart 
A  sweetness  to  befriend 

The  noisome  smart 
Of  s'pleen,  or  sorrows  that  contend. 


PERFUMES. 

Santat  recalleth  pomp  and  gold,. 
Luxurious  dreams  superb  ! 
Festivals,  pageants  manifold, — 
Wines,  revelries,  disturb. 

Purple,  and  gems  of  mould 

A  mind  wealth-dazzled,  curb — 

By  spendent  scenes  untold, 

While  loud  reverb 
The  dance-bells,  mellow,  silver-souled. 

Rose-attar  to  the  nostril  brings 

Balm,  tranquilness,  and  peace ; 
A  sky,  blue,  musing,  moves  and  swings 
Its  clouds  like  snow-laved  fleece. 

A  smell  of  virgin  wings, 
A  smell  of  vales  in  Greece, 
Pervades  the  sense  and  stings, 

Till  sweet  surcease 
Is  craved,  to  dream  of  other  things. 

Benzoin  brings  fumes  of  mordant  lust, 
Wild,  tempting  vapors  seethe  ! 
Houris'  flusht  nipples  craze  the  gust : 
Their  breaths  are  hot  to  breathe. 
Supple-formed  nymphs  robust, 
Lascive,  nard-bathed,  bequeath — 
Vague,  fleshy  scents  with  trust, 

Sheathe  and  unsheathe 
Sword-tongues,  imperious  of  thrust ! 

Incense,  myrrh-redolent,  conveys 
A  temple's  grandeur,  stern  : 
An  unctuous  voice  chants  cloistral  lays, 
The  censers'  perfumes  burn, 


20  PERFUMES. 

A  holy,  bluish  blaze. 
Iron  bells  have  chimed  nocturn  ; 
The  sins  of  nights  and  days 

All  minds  concern, 
Tears  contrite  mix  with  tears  of  praise  ! 

Musk,  vistas  tropical  can  paint, 

Its  sweet  recalls  the  breeze 
Of  Cuba's  hills  :   aromas  faint 
Spring,  zephyr-toucht,  to  ease 

Of  listlessness  the  plaint. 

Blue  gleen  the  distant  seas, 

Blue  as  the  eyes  of  saint, 

While  over  lees 
Gush  scents  of  unknown  savor  quaint. 

Others,  far  subtler,  can  excite, 

Though  ownerless  of  name. 
Such  are  the  essences  of  light, — 
The  perfumes  of  a  flame, 

The  smell  of  first  snow,  white, 
Some  picture's  olden  frame. 
But  sweeter  far  by  night 

Dead  kisses  claim, 
Though  passed,  an  od'rous  vague  delight. 


OBLIVION. 

WHEN  drunk  with  gore  the  foeman  spurs 
His  maddened  charger  o'er  a  field 
Where  gashed,  mangled  corpses  yield — 
Beneath  the  iron-shod  Death  that  errs, 
And  in  its  fury  opes  and  stirs 

Deep  wounds  with  clotted  blood  half  sealed. 
Some  men  may  weep, 

And  others  laugh ; 
I  neither  laugh  nor  weep, 

But  quaff — 
My  wine,  and  find  repose  in  sleep. 

When  chill  with  rage  the  tempest  drives 
The  scudding  hell-doomed  ship  to  sea, 
And  strident,  shrieks  in  blast  of  glee 
With  raucous  voice,  that  sobs  for  lives, 
And  taunteth  when  the  vessel  strives 
To  shun  its  fate,  or  flee  the  lee, 
Some  men  may  weep, 
And  others  laugh ; 
I  neither  laugh  nor  weep, 

But  quaff— 
My  wine,  and  find  repose  in  sleep. 

When  mortals  find  that  all  is  naught, 
That  life  is  but  one  vast  decoy, — 
False  in  its  pain,  more  false  in  joy, 

3  21 


22  LA  CQ  UER-  WORK. 

Rotten  in  action  and  in  thought ; 
And  when  they  learn — with  wisdom  fraught- 
That  time  can  ev'ry  trust  destroy, 
Some  men  may  weep, 

And  others  laugh ; 
I  neither  laugh  nor  weep, 

But  quaff — 

My  wine,  and  find  repose  in  sleep. 
BARCELONA,  January,  1873. 


LACQUER-WORK. 

THE  city  I  love  is  in  Japan, 
With  streets  spread  out  like  a  lady's  fan ; 
High  towers  of  porcelain,  white  and  blue, 
O'ertop  the  cottages  of  bamboo. 
Pagodas  lacquered  enchant  my  eye, 
Their  kaolin  steeples  pierce  the  sky. 
Rare  birds,  with  plumage  all  gold  and  red, 
Chirp  sweetest  melodies  o'er  my  head. 
Strange  idols,  carved,  of  costume  quaint, 
Grin  blandly  on  me  from  out  their  paint. 
A  music,  not  sad,  yet  dreamy,  swells : 
Its  rhythm  keeps  time  with  silv'ry  bells. 

My  lovely  idol  is  hidden  here, 

With  inch-long  eyes  and  a  gaze  sincere  ; 

Her  feet  are  so  small  she  cannot  walk, 

Her  breast  is  as  white  as  snow  or  chalk  ; 

Her  laugh  is  like  sunshine,  full  of  glee, 

And  her  sweet  breath  smells  like  fresh-made  tea. 


STANZAS. 

ON  a  dark  long  December  night, 

I  delight 
To  gaze  upon  some  church,  robed  white — 

With  snow ;  its  steeples  capped  with  rime. 
And  in  the  cemetery  near, 
Chill  and  drear, 
I  love  to  see  the  dying  year — 
Struggle  against  resistless  time. 

I  love  to  hear  the  ice-blast  bleak 

Moan  and  shriek 
Over  the  grave-yard's  cedars,  weak — 

And  bending  'neath  its  storm-mad  kiss: 
And  as  I  sit  to  watch  it  lift 

Each  snow-drift, 

While  scattering  ev'ry  flake,  and  rift 
The  trembling  tombstones  by  its  hiss. 

Here  seek  I  peace,  for  memories  blend, 

And  a  friend, 

The  only  one  I  own,  can  lend — 
A  surcease  to  my  grief  below ; 
For  I  have  suffered,  loved,  and  pined, 

And  I  find 

In  tempest's  voices,  rough,  unkind, 
A  sympathizer  for  my  woe. 

VITTORIA,  December,  1872. 

23 


THE     SKELETON    SEXTON. 

A  RHENISH  legend,  quaint  and  drear, 

Told  in  a  mystic  uncouth  rhyme, 
By  chance  fell  on  my  awe-struck  ear, — 
A  tale  of  horror  and  of  fear, 
Strange  echo  of  an  olden  time ; 
For  it  sang  of  a  bell, 
A  rusty  bell, 
Which  hung 
And  rung 

With  brazen  tongue 
From  a  church  in  a  lonely  dell. 

The  steeple  of  the  haunted  kirk 

O'erlooked  the  graves  of  buried  dead, 
Where  phantoms  pale  were  known  to  lurk 
Silently  'neath  the  garish  smirk 
Of  chilly  moonbeams  overhead  ; 
And  they  gazed  at  that  bell, 
That  heavy  bell, 
Which  hung 
And  rung 

With  brazen  tongue 
From  the  church  in  the  lonely  dell. 

At  stroke  of  midnight  there  appeared, 

From  out  the  shadows  dense  and  gray, 
A  skeleton  of  aspect  weird, 
Who  paused  and  at  the  tombstones  leered, 
24 


THE   SKELETON  SEXTON.  25 

Then  to  the  belfry  sped  his  way ; 
And  he  tolled  that  bell, 
That  drowsy  bell, 

Which  hung 

And  rung 

With  brazen  tongue 
From  the  church  in  the  lonely  dell. 


Around  his  bones  he  wraps  a  shroud, 

And  rings  till  kirk  and  cloister  shake, 
While  other  eager  spirits  crowd 
And  laugh  so  shrill,  and  laugh  so  loud, 
That  seems  as  if  the  dead  would  wake ; 
For  at  every  knell 
Of  that  rusty  bell, 
Which  hung 
And  rung 

With  brazen  tongue 
Some  mortal  fell 
In  the  depths  of  hell. 

Now,  when  I  hear  at  midnight  hour 

A  sad  and  solemn  funeral  dirge, 
Even  in  dreams,  I  bend  and  cower, 
Shrinking  aghast  from  occult  power 
And  shadows  grim  which  forth  emerge; 
And  I  think  of  that  bell, 
That  mellow  bell, 
Which  hung 
And  rung 

With  brazen  tongue 
From  the  church  in  the  lonely  dell. 
3* 


28  GOYA. 

Behold  the  tint  of  clouds  that  swoon  ! 

The  moon 
Leers  on  a  fishless,  phantom  lake  ; 

Gaunt,  threatening  shadows  hellward  loom. 

The  gloom 

Chills  the  damned  glance  of  fiends  who  slake 
Their  thirsts  with  mud,  whom  fires  consume. 

Ever  the  nacarat  gleams  of  fire, 

Red,  dire, 

Light  the  wild  wonders  of  thy  work ; 
Visions  that  pall,  with  colors  cursed, 

Now  burst 
On  riven  gaze,  or  lie  and  lurk, 

The  last  more  harrowing  than  the  first ! 

Yet  in  thy  better,  happier  hours, 

Fair  flowers, 

Fruits,  and  queen-bodied  virgins  smile — 
From  out  a  golden  florid  paint, 

Dream-faint 
Chimeras,  born  to  calm  awhile 

The  terrors  of  thy  ceaseless  plaint. 

Thy  dark-orbed  sirens  of  Seville 

Can  thrill : 

The  majos'  velvet  jacket  gleams ; 
Or,  from  Granada's  sculptured  halls, 

There  falls 

The  soft,  pale  light  of  marble  dreams  : 
Thy  dormant  Muse  forgets  her  galls. 

See  there  again  the  plaza  full ! 
The  bull 


GOYA.  ? 

Swelters  in  foaming  sweat  and  gore ; 

The  echo  of  ten  thousand  throats, 

Parched,  dotes 
Over  the  dying  beast.     Strife-sore, 

A  people  every  quiver  notes. 

We  see  the  grand  and  brutal  fun, 

The  sun 
Pouring  its  rays  on  eager  girls, 

Slow-eyed,  who  beg  th'  espada's  skill 

To  kill ; 

But  torture  first  the  bull  in  furls — 
Of  silk,  before  his  blood  turns  still. 

Colorful  glories  of  old  Spain, 

Long  lain 
For  ages  in  the  glooms  of  time, 

Thou  hast  revived  with  potent  brush, 

The  flush 

Of  all  that  golden,  glorious  clime, 
With  tintings  masterful  and  lush. 

Some  sad,  vague,  cloistral  solitude, 

As  viewed 

By  mutinous  moonbeams,  greeting  clouds, 
Shows  sights  our  modern  fancies  shun  : 

A  nun, — 

Robed  in  long,  white,  cross-streaked  shrouds, 
Waiting  till  vesper  mass  be  done. 

She  steals  without  in  gardens  dark, 
The  spark — 


3o  GOYA. 

Of  watching  eyes  directs  her  feet ; 

Her  chaplet's  beads  'neath  cowl  of  monk, 

Love-drunk. 
Are  kisst  upon  her  bosom's  sweet, 

A  fragile  form  in  sin  has  sunk. — 

The  shivering  shadows  of  the  rack, 

Dark,  black, 

Loom  on  thy  canvass,  where,  in  fear, 
Some  pallid  sufferer  is  dragged, 

Iron-gagged, 

Through  corridors,  dank,  humid,  drear, 
With  jagged  stone,  dirt-mingled,  flagged. 

The  venoms  of  thy  musings  foul 

Oft  scowl 

Savagely  from  their  colored  cloaks. 
Like  Ribera,  thy  genius  rare — 

Of  prayer, 

The  myths  of  noisome  thought  invokes, 
For  what  was  vile  thou  madest  fair. 

Great  dreamer !  let  thy  sleep  be  light. 

The  bright 
Aurora  of  reviving  art 

Will  warm  thy  soul's  forsaken  rest. 

Thou,  blest 
With  gems  of  fancy  and  of  heart, 

Wilt  live  in  Spain  among  the  best ! 
MADRID,  December,  1872. 


DREAM    OF    ICE. 

OH,  wondrous,  solemn  mystery  of  Dream  ! 
Sublime  induction  of  a  formless  thought — 

How  vivid  is  thy  cloud-constructed  theme  ! 
Divine  of  fancy,  and  by  mind  unsought, 
Marvel  of  color,  nameless  and  untaught, 

Appalling  glimpses  of  a  world  supreme  ! 

I  saw  in  sleep,  with  thrills  of  proud  delight, 
Vistas  of  algid  spheres,  and  such  a  view 

As  never  yet  of  man  had  blurred  the  sight, 
Which  none  can  tell  of,  or  conceive  of  few. — 
In  planets  far,  through  billion  leagues  of  blue, 

A  vision  of  an  airless  city,  white. 

Mammoth  cathedrals,  higher  than  the  eye 
Could  reach;  of  architecture  hybrid,  weird, 

Their  slender  steeples  through  a  freezing  sky, 
With  grand,  stupendous  gracefulness  upreared. 
Palaces,  portals,  monuments  appeared, 

And  endless  avenues  rolled  in  and  by 


Titanic  domes  on  massive  temples  rose, 
Like  a  young  giant  virgin's  niveous  breast, 

Chilling,  soul-thrilling  in  their  stern  repose, 
As  if  defying  gods,  by  gods  unblest ; 
While  pillars,  columns,  worked  of  plinth  and 
crest, 

Upheld  the  mass  with  firmest  strength,  rugose. 


DREAM   OF  ICE. 

And  all  was  ice  and  all  was  white;  no  air, 
No  earth,  no  flame ;  all  frigid,  rigid  cold  ! 

An  icen  labyrinth  of  grand  despair. 
The  sad  necropolis  of  a  race  now  old, 
Damned  for  anterior  sinnings  manifold 

By  one  chill  glance  of  God's  avenging  stare  ! 

The  trees  of  solid  ice  had  leaves  of  snow  ; 
Huge,  pendent  icicles  from  heights  unseen 

Twisted  in  uncouth  shapes,  while  to  and  fro 
Swung  skies  of  silver  frost,  steel-color,  keen, 
Superbly  monotone  of  phantom  gleen, 

Veiling  a  pallid  moon's  blear,  brumal  glow  ! 

Long  lines  of  statues  guarded  every  street, 
With  cloaks  of  rime,  with  trailing  beards  of 
hail, 

Frigidly  gazing,  with  blank  eyes  discreet, 
From  rough  and  icy  socles,  mute  and  pale, 
Waiting  to  tell  their  agonizing  tale, 

Waiting  some  sympathizing  face  to  greet. 

And  all  was  still :  a  silence  kin  to  pain, 
And  desolate  as  death,  sad,  vague,  austere, 

Save  when  the  echo  of  some  spirit-strain 

Murmured  half-frozen  melodies  of  fear.    .    .   . 
The  ghastly  moon  would  pause  and  disappear 

Through  hueless  heavens,  and  would  come  again. - 

Oh,  'twas  a  grand  and  mighty  dream  of  ice  ! 
A  poem  of  white  snows:   sublimest  grave, 
Whose  very  dreariness  would  souls  entice, — 


SLEEP. 


33 


Souls  flusht  and  sick  of  terrene  heats,  who,  brave 
Would  eagerly  renounce  our  God,  and  crave 
A  tomb  in  this  pale,  peerless  paradise  ! 

And  I  had  seen  it  all,  my  spirit  paced 

Those  broad,  bleak  thoroughfares  of  gray  and 
white. 

No  air  had  I  to  breathe ;  my  lungs  were  braced 
With  belts  of  freezing  vapor,  fresh  and  light ; 
And,  as  I  wandered  on  from  site  to  site, 

My  thoughts  of  fire  this  mortal  chill  effaced. 

For  well  do  I  recall  my  dream,  and  see 

The  strange,  fantastic  town  of  ice  and  rime; 

I  still  discern  each  palace,  porch,  and  tree 
That  reared  its  splendor  in  this  boreal  clime  ; 
And  I  remember  how,  from  time  to  time, 

I  strove  to  cool  my  maddening  love  for  thee.  .  .  . 


SLEEP. 

SUBTLE  softness  soul  ward  stealing, 
Sleep  !  sweet  savior  still  sincere. 

Silent,  soothing,  sorrow-sealing, 
Sombre  shadow,  sad,  severe  ! 


32 


DREAM    OF  ICE. 

And  all  was  ice  and  all  was  white;  no  air, 
No  earth,  no  flame ;  all  frigid,  rigid  cold  ! 

An  icen  labyrinth  of  grand  despair. 
The  sad  necropolis  of  a  race  now  old, 
Damned  for  anterior  sinnings  manifold 

By  one  chill  glance  of  God's  avenging  stare  ! 

The  trees  of  solid  ice  had  leaves  of  snow ; 
Huge,  pendent  icicles  from  heights  unseen 

Twisted  in  uncouth  shapes,  while  to  and  fro 
Swung  skies  of  silver  frost,  steel-color,  keen, 
Superbly  monotone  of  phantom  gleen, 

Veiling  a  pallid  moon's  blear,  brumal  glow  ! 

Long  lines  of  statues  guarded  every  street, 
With  cloaks  of  rime,  with  trailing  beards  of 
hail, 

Frigidly  gazing,  with  blank  eyes  discreet, 
From  rough  and  icy  socles,  mute  and  pale, 
Waiting  to  tell  their  agonizing  tale, 

Waiting  some  sympathizing  face  to  greet. 

And  all  was  still :   a  silence  kin  to  pain, 
And  desolate  as  death,  sad,  vague,  austere, 

Save  when  the  echo  of  some  spirit-strain 

Murmured  half-frozen  melodies  of  fear.    .    .   . 
The  ghastly  moon  would  pause  and  disappear 

Through  hueless  heavens,  and  would  come  again. - 

Oh,  'twas  a  grand  and  mighty  dream  of  ice  ! 
A  poem  of  white  snows:  sublimest  grave, 
Whose  very  dreariness  would  souls  entice, — 


SLEEP. 


33 


Souls  flusht  and  sick  of  terrene  heats,  who,  brave 
Would  eagerly  renounce  our  God,  and  crave 
A  tomb  in  this  pale,  peerless  paradise  ! 

And  I  had  seen  it  all,  my  spirit  paced 

Those  broad,  bleak  thoroughfares  of  gray  and 
white. 

No  air  had  I  to  breathe ;  my  lungs  were  braced 
With  belts  of  freezing  vapor,  fresh  and  light ; 
And,  as  I  wandered  on  from  site  to  site, 

My  thoughts  of  fire  this  mortal  chill  effaced. 

For  well  do  I  recall  my  dream,  and  see 

The  strange,  fantastic  town  of  ice  and  rirne  ; 

I  still  discern  each  palace,  porch,  and  tree 
That  reared  its  splendor  in  this  boreal  clime  ; 
And  I  remember  how,  from  time  to  time, 

I  strove  to  cool  my  maddening  love  for  thee.  .  .  . 


SLEEP. 

SUBTLE  softness  soulward  stealing, 
Sleep  !  sweet  savior  still  sincere. 

Silent,  soothing,  sorrow-sealing, 
Sombre  shadow,  sad,  severe  ! 


SPLEEN. 

THE  nurse  of  my  childhood  was  Pain, 

And  my  infant  lips  reveled  and  drank 
From  bare  bosoms,  consoling,  humane, 
Milk  sourer  than  hatreds,  and  rank, 
Till  they  dried  by  the  drain, 
Till  they  withered  and  shrank. 

And  the  foam  of  that  milk's  gangrene 
Was  like  oils  to  my  parched  tongue ; 
For  right  docile  was  I  to  wean 
As  helpless  my  bodilet  hung, 
Sucking  pains  that  were  keen, — 
Sucking  pains  till  they  stung  ! 

When  the  torrent  had  ebbed  in  tide, 
The  kindly,  cold  nipples  I  tore — 
Into  shreds,  as  I  puled,  and  I  cried 
Over  flesh  that  was  bleeding  and  sore, 
For  more  Pain  from  that  side, 
For  more  Pain,  and  still  more. 

For  the  pleasures  and  joys  of  Pain 

Are  as  welcome,  refreshing,  and  fresh 
As  the  deluge  of  early  spring  rain, 

As  the  large-weighted  drops  to  the  flesh- 
Of  all  kine,  by  murrain 
Left  skin-tender  and  nesh. 
34 


PROFILE. 

But  I  found  no  more  Pain,  while  Spleen, 

With  its  pale  and  its  yellow  leer, 
With  its  infamous  touch  venene, 
With  its  pitiless  brutal  sneer, 
With  its  milt  and  its  teen, 
Came  to  blight  my  career. 

A  mantle  of  sinister  gloom 

Has  made  night  of  my  light  and  day, 
My  vindictive  thoughts  shift  and  loom, 
Vague  fancies  of  Fear  and  Dismay, 
While  the  spleens  of  the  tomb 
Suck  my  heart's  blood  away. 


35 


PROFILE. 

HALF  of  a  face  love  I,  superbly  Greek  ! 

The  other  half  ignore,  and  would  not  know 
Its  charms  or  its  deceits ;  why  should  I  seek 

The  fair  uncertainties  that  sight  might  show, 
When  to  mine  eyes  a  perfect  profile,  sleek 

And  softly  languorous  of  artistic  flow, 
Smileth  in  splendid  curves  from  front  to  cheek, 

Rubied  between  by  lips  of  luscious  glow? 
No  !  in  rapt  contemplation  I  prefer 

To  gaze  upon  its  Nauplian  mould,  and  stir 
My  chaos  of  mad  musings  to  revere 

The  peerless  purity  of  such  a  face ; 
For  God  had  sculptured  from  an  angel's  tear 

This  pale,  proud  profile  of  sublimest  grace  ! 


C  U  R I A  L. 

GRAND  sepulchre  of  royal  hates,  dank  grave 

Of  bitter  thoughts  morose,  of  cares  and  spleens, 
Cyclops  of  granite,  where  at  midnight  rave 

Through  gelid  crypts  the  souls  of  kings  and  queens, 
What  art  thou  in  thy  dismal  desert,  save — 

The  silent  phantom  of  Spain's  by-gone  scenes? 
Does  not  grim  Philip's  spirit  haunt  the  naves 

Of  thy  stern  cloisters  with  his  mind's  gangrenes? 
Oh,  walls  of  groans  !  oh,  blood-hewn  aisles  and  domes  ! 

A  sad,  drear  monotone  of  echoes  roams 
From  Guadarramian  heights  around  thy  gloom, 

The  frozen  prayers  of  Torquemada's  slain  ! 
Cursed  be  thy  silence,  monstrous,  chilly  tomb  ! 

Crumble  and  rot,  gray  fiend  of  stone  and  pain  ! 


THE    FACE    IN    THE    FIRE. 

I  CANNOT  sit  before  a  fire 

And  warm  my  shivering  limbs  : 
The  candent  sparks  my  senses  tire, 
For  a  wild  vision  grim  and  dire 
My  eye  with  terror  dims. 

And  every  dazzling,  flickering  flame 

Darting  from  out  the  coal, 
36 


THE  FACE   IN   THE   FIRE. 

Stirs  up  a  fierce  immortal  shame, 
To  seethe  and  simmer  through  my  frame 
And  agonize  my  soul. 

I  cannot  stand  its  withering  light, 

Its  hot  and  horrid  glare  : 
My  heart  shrinks  back  in  awed  affright, 
I  close  my  eyes  to  mask  a  sight 

That  fills  me  with  despair. 

And  cruel  memories  flit  by, 

Sad  memories  of  the  past ; 
I  drop  my  weary  head,  and  sigh, — 
And  though  to  check  the  tears  I  try, 

They  will  fall  thick  and  fast. 

For  when  I  raise  my  eyes  to  peep 

Into  the  fire  again, 
I  feel  the  cold  sweat  o'er  me  creep, 
My  burning  pulses  throb  and  leap 

In  misery  of  pain  ! 

Alas  !  can  ever  I  be  free 

From  that  strange  demon  face, 
Gazing  from  out  the  flames  at  me, 
Haunting  me  with  satanic  glee, 
Which  no  power  can  efface  ? 

Once  it  was  living,  meek  and  bland  : 

In  Hades  now  'tis  sunk  ; 
/sent  it  there  with  my  own  hand, 
/thrust  it  down  to  Stygian  strand, 

One  night  by  passion  drunk  ! 

4* 


37 


3 8  THE   FACE   IN   THE  FIRE. 

The  face  was  of  a  peerless  maid, 
But  she  was  faithless  found  : 

Her  oath  and  marriage  vows  betrayed; 

And  so  I  seized  my  nitid  blade 
And  smote  her  to  the  ground  ! 

Beneath  my  jealous  glance  she  bent, 

And  from  her  bleeding  side 
Her  false  and  perjured  heart  I  rent, 
And  with  a  brutal  blow  I  sent 
To  fiends  the  tongue  that  lied  ! 

For  no  sad  proof  did  I  inquire, 
But,  by  my  rage  possessed, 

In  fiercest  frenzy  of  my  ire, 

I  hurled  her  body  in  the  fire 
With  stern  and  savage  zest ! 

And  now  her  face  my  vision  haunts 

When  I  to  calm  aspire  : 
Her  phantom  presence  thrills  and  daunts 
I  hear  her  base  and  mocking  taunts 

Crackle  from  out  the  fire  ! 

In  vain  with  water  and  with  tears 
Those  flames  I  strive  to  quell ; 
Each  smoking  ember  at  me  leers, 
And  still  that  glowing  face  appears, 
And  beckons  me  to  hell ! 


BERGENHEIM. 

ON  the  sloping  banks  of  the  mystic  Rhine, 
'Neath  the  grim  old  crumbling  turret's  gloom, 

Where  the  lurid  eyes  of  the  gray  owls  shine, 
And  the  moon's  gair  rays  the  shades  illume, 

There  I  musing  lay  till  a  far  church  tolled 
Its  long,  sad,  echoing  midnight  bell; 

And  I  watched  the  ripples  as  they  rolled 
On  silvery  pebbles  ere  they  fell. 

While  I  sat  and  gazed  on  the  winding  stream, 
As  it  ebbed  and  pulsed  in  fulvid  sheen, 

I  ardently  prayed  for  a  power  supreme 
To  fathom  those  lucid  depths  unseen. 

And  I  dreamt  of  a  fatal  day  gone  by. 

My  poor  heart  grew  sad,  and  dreary,  too  ; 
For  that  haunted  Rhine  heard  my  love's  last  sigh, 

When  she  perished  in  its  waves  so  blue. 

But  the  sombre  glint  of  the  moonbeams  pale 
My  sick  soul  thrilled  to  the  very  core, 

As  I  sudden  heard  the  last  dying  wail 
Of  a  voice  I  knew  in  days  of  yore  ! 

The  old,  crumbling  tower  shone  with  weirdie  glare, 
The  night-owls  screeched  and  the  ravens  croaked, 

As  that  siren  voice,  in  a  feverish  prayer, 
From  the  lustred  waves  my  name  invoked. 

39 


o  THE   BALLAD    OF  GASTOUN. 

The  fair  form  I  saw  on  the  waters  float 
Of  a  spectral  maiden,  wondrous  fair ; 

The  brown  alga  wove  round  her  slender  throat, 
And  the  golden  sea-shells  decked  her  hair. 

'Twas  the  spirit  sad  of  my  love,  my  pride, 
That  glided  by  in  her  cherub  grace ; 

And  I  sat  on  the  lonely  bank  and  cried, 
But  in  ev'ry  tear  I  saw  her  face. 

I  can  ne'er  forget  that  sweet,  melting  gaze, 
Or  that  tender  glance  she  cast  on  me, 

As  she  sank  below  in  the  watery  maze 
Of  circling  eddies  to  join  the  sea. 

And  where'er  I  linger,  where'er  I  roam, 
Her  spirit  follows  with  languid  eye, 

And  I  see  my  love  in  her  shroud  of  foam, 
And  I  hear  her  last  wild  gurgling  sigh  ! 


THE    BALLAD    OF    GASTOUN. 

THIS  is  a  song  of  olden  times, 

An  odd,  mediaeval  lay  : 
In  jargons  strange,  and  wondrous  rhymes, 
It  still  is  sung  by  bards  and  mimes, 
And  oft  is  heard  in  distant  climes, 

From  Fez  to  fair  Cathay. 


THE   BALLAD    OF  GASTOUN.  41 

In  feudal  ages  stood  a  tower, 

In  beauteous  Normandy, 
Where  dwelt  a  lord,  whose  boundless  power 
Caused  nigh  six  hundred  slaves  to  cower, 
While  countless  riches  were  his  dower, 

And  hosts  of  soldiery. 

Yclept  Gastoun,  the  Dauntless  Knight, 

A  man  ignoring  fear : 
And  tales  of  his  chivalric  might, 
At  tournament  and  open  fight, — 
At  early  morn  or  dead  of  night, — 

Are  told  since  many  2Pyear. 

Gallant  was  he  with  ladies  fair, 

Clad  in  his  coat  of  mail : 
For  bright  blue  eyes  and  russet  hair 
No  other  could  with  him  compare, 
Or,  when  in  ire,  he  would  prepare 

A  parapet  to  scale. 

On  lute  and  rebec  he  could  play 

Sad  ditties  to  the  moon  : 
While  none  could  sing  a  ballad  gay, 
A  churchly  hymn,  or  roundelay, 
And  sweet  words  with  more  feeling  say, 

Than  handsome  Knight  Gastoun. 

To  him  full  many  a  noble  dame 

Her  love  strove  to  impart : 
No  lily  hand  his  hand  could  claim, 
No  eye  could  meet  his  eye  of  flame, 
No  ardent  glance  his  breast  could  tame, — 

He  broke,  but  took  no  heart. 


THE    BALLAD    OF  GASTOUN. 

At  jousts  and  combats  Gastoun  shone 

'Midst  flower  of  chivalry  : 
By  damsels  crimson  scarfs  were  thrown, 
And  kisses  sweet  to  him  alone, 
But  failed  to  turn  a  heart  of  stone 

Spurning  all  rivalry. 

He  wore  his  'scutcheon  on  his  breast, 

With  strange,  antique  device  : 
Helmets,  torqued  snakes,  and  fretted  crest, 
Proved  that  Gastoun  had  stood  the  test 
Of  struggles  wild,  with  noble  zest, 

For  he  was  knighted  thrice. 

In  his  career  of  blood  and  strife, 

And  battles  with  the  foe, 
His  vassals  wondered  why  a  wife 
Unto  his  breast,  with  trouble  rife, 
He  did  not  take  to  cheer  his  life 

When  older  he  should  grow. 

He  spurned  all  ladies,  free,  high-born, 

And  shunned  their  tempting  eyes ; 
The  fairest  maidens  viewed  with  scorn, 
Leaving  them  all  to  weep  and  mourn, 
By  passion's  keenest  anguish  torn, — 
None  owned  him  as  a  prize. 

But  once  at  hunt  he  met  a  maid, 

A  peasant,  plump  and  wee  : 
To  her  his  knightly  homage  paid, 
A  sudden  ardor  there  betrayed, 
And  brought  her  home  in  silks  arrayed 

To  beauteous  Normandy. 


THE   BALLAD    OF  GASTOUN. 

The  nuptial  nights  without  delay 
Were  fixed  for  Hallow  Eve; 

But,  to  the  castle's  sore  dismay, 

The  king  of  France  sent  word  that  day, 

Bidding  his  noble  swift  obey, 
Both  bride  and  domains  leave, 

Toifollow  o'er  the  sea  his  king, 
And  join  the  great  Crusade  : 
In  honor  of  the  Lord  to  sing, 
The  heads  of  Infidels  to  wring, 
Saladin  to  submission  bring, — 
Either  by  faith  or  blade. 

So  Gastoun  called  his  men-at-arms 

And  gorgeous  retinue, 
Bade  adieu  to  his  bride's  fair  charms, 
Soothing  her  heart  from  vague  alarms, 
And  swore  to  kill  Turks  by  the  swarms 

If  she  would  remain  true. 

"  And  furthermore,"  the  baron  quoth, 
"  Lambkin,  I'll  not  be  long: 

And  though  to  leave  thee  I  am  loth, 

Remember  that  a  sacred  oath 

Binds  us  forever  troth  to  troth, 
Whether  for  right  or  wrong." 

Then  lept  upon  his  prancing  steed, 

And  briskly  rode  away ; 
For  France  and  for  King  Louis  bleed, 
E'er  to  sustain  the  holy  creed, 
The  victory  for  Christ  to  speed, 

And  at  his  tombstone  pray. 


43 


44 


THE   BALLAD    OF  GASTOUN. 

And  all  the  chivalry  of  France 

Embarked  upon  the  seas, 
To  rouse  the  Moslems  from  their  trance, 
To  gird  the  sword  and  wield  the  lance, 
Handle  the  axe,  and  join,  perchance, 

In  joyous  revelries. 

For  long  long  years  in  Palestine,       « 

In  those  brave  days  of  eld, 
The  valiant  knights  in  battle  line, 
With  hearts  of  steel,  though  look  benign, 
With  faith  for  friend,  and  cross  for  sign, 

The  holy  cause  upheld. 

He  fought  the  Sultan  Kelaoun, 

Upon  an  open  plain 
Of  Syria's  wastes,  one  sultry  noon. 
And  here  the  turbaned  Turk  fell  soon 
Beneath  the  sharp  glaive  of  Gastoun, 

Which  clove  his  skull  in  twain. 

And  when  the  knight  returned  at  last 

To  sunny  Normandy, 
He  spurred  his  charger  on  right  fast, 
By  dust  and  traveling  harassed, — 
While  his  desire  was  unsurpassed 

His  winsome  bride  to  see. 

But  as  he  neared  the  fortress  gate 

A  herald  tidings  bore  ; 
To  wit :   that  he  returned  too  late 
To  see  his  fair  and  chosen  mate, 
Who,  stricken  down  by  cruel  fate, 

Had  died  a  year  before. 


THE  BALLAD    OF  GASTOUN. 

At  first  the  warrior  ne'er  replied, 

Though  many  saw  him  weep  : 
He  strove  not  then  his  grief  to  hide, 
But  said,  with  all  his  Norman  pride, 
"  I  swore  that  she  would  be  my  bride ; 
That  sacred  oath  will  keep  ! 

"  Prepare  for  me  the  nuptial-room, 

My  sturdy  helots  all : 
Light  up  the  turret's  densest  gloom, 
Let  tocsin  ring,  and  culverin  boom, 
Then  bring  her  coffin  from  the  tomb 

In  the  ancestral  hall ! 

"  And  let  her  bones  in  silk  be  clad : 
A  crown  placed  on  her  head  ; 

And  though  my  heart  be  sick,  and  sad, 

My  duty  makes  me  feel  more  glad  ; 

And  woe  to  him  who  saith  I'm  mad 
A  skeleton  to  wed  !" 

The  tower-bells  chimed  in  mellow  tones, 

The  wedding  hour  was  near  : 
While  urchins  young  and  wrinkled  crones 
Stood  on  tiptoe,  with  cries  and  groans, 
To  see  the  jagged  and  reeking  bones, 

And  witness  scene  so  drear. 

From  out  the  crypt  a  long  escort 

Of  monks  all  clad  in  serge 
A  massive,  iron-clasped  coffin  brought, 
By  crafty  workmen  richly  wrought, 
And  laid  it  in  the  baron's  court, 

Chanting  a  dismal  dirge. 
5 


45 


46  THE   BALLAD    OF  GASTOUN. 

His  strange  commands  were  then  obeyed 

By  all  the  trembling  throng, — 
Though  cowed  by  awe  and  sore  afraid, 
The  skeleton  in  robes  arrayed, — 
While  minstrels  wedding  anthems  played, 
And  all  joined  in  the  song. 

And  then  this  brave  and  loyal  knight 

The  shiny  forehead  kissed  ; 
And  while  the  priest  swooned  from  affright, 
He  swore  to  hold  that  nuptial  rite 
Sacred  each  day,  sacred  each  night, 

All  years  he  would  exist. 

"  This  vow,"  he  cried,  "  I  ne'er  shall  break  ; 

Or  if  I  so  should  do, 
I  hope  to  perish  on  the  stake, 
I  hope  that  hell  my  soul  shall  take 
And  drown  it  in  the  fiery  lake, 

If  I  should  prove  not  true!" 

Then  sternly  on  his  vassals  frowned, 
And  thrilled  though  undismayed : 

Said,  "  Let  my  bride  with  gems  be  crowned, 

Then  firmly  in  a  coffin  bound, 

And  build  a  tombstone  and  a  mound 
Where  her  dear  bones  are  laid." 

He  spake,  and  from  the  palace  door 

Rode  gallantly  away ; 
Whether  he  left  the  Norman  shore 
For  foreign  lands  we  all  ignore, 
For  he  was  never  heard  of  more, 

And  time  will  not  betray. 


VENICE. 

O'ER  Venice  the  proud 
Night  wraps  its  gray  shroud  ; 
Dull  torches  illume 
The  arches  and  gloom. 
The  curled  wavelets  roll, 
The  convent  bells  toll 
The  hour  of  midnight, 
While  placid  and  bright, 
O'er  the  dark  lagoon, 
Shines  an  opal  moon. 

The  gondolas  rest, 

By  tide-waves  caressed. 

From  every  side 

In  the  churches  glide 

Fair  women,  who  pray 

For  true  love  alway  : 

And  tanned  men  who  kneel, 

For  purses  to  steal, 

While  o'er  the  lagoon 

Stares  the  opal  moon. 

With  passion  replete, 
Yet  tender  and  sweet, 
Some  soft  serenade 
Swells  out  from  the  shade. 

47 


48  VENICE. 

A  silvery  voice 
Will  some  maid  rejoice, 
Who  whispers,  "My  love, 
Climb  quickly  above," 
While  o'er  the  lagoon 
Smiles  the  opal  moon. 

But  oft  in  the  night 

Sharp  poignards  gleam  bright. 

On  the  Bridge  of  Sighs 

A  dead  body  lies, 

While  the  watchman's  bell 

Tolleth  out  "all's  well." 

And  a  victim's  blood 

Drips  down  in  the  mud, 

While  o'er  the  lagoon 

Frowns  the  opal  moon.   .   .   . 


Far  out  on  the  bay, 
'Twixt  green  islets,  play 
The  foam-ripples  fair. 
By  the  dazzling  glare 
Of  the  lantern's  red  light, 
Young  lovers  take  flight. 
And  past  shadows  dim, 
Through  cobalt  waves  skim, 
While  o'er  the  lagoon 
Grins  the  opal  moon. 

Some  funeral  dirge 
Blends  low  with  the  surge, 
Which  beats  on  the  shore, 
Deep-toned  of  roar. 


PHR  YNE.  49 

Sad  Venice  so  drear, 
Sleeps  ever  in  fear, 
Whole  ages  have  flown, 
And  no  change  is  shown, 
When  o'er  the  lagoon 
Beams  an  opal  moon. 


PHRYNE. 

A  MORE  than  regal  Greek,  proud  Phryne  stands, 

Superb,  majestic,  most  entrancing  fair, 

Smiling  with  insolent,  contented  joy — 

Upon  her  matchless  form  of  panting  flesh. 

While,  draped  in  shadows  of  voluptuous  gloom, 

The  tresses  undulate  of  her  long  hair 

Falling  unkempt,  in  aureate  silken  sheen 

Upon  her  bare  mooned  shoulders,  white  as  fleece, 

Her  crescent  bosom,  and  her  pliant  torse, 

Would  stir  a  fever  in  a  heart  of  bronze, 

For,  pleased  with  budding  youth  and  houri  charms, 

There  lurks  a  glance  electric  in  her  orbs : 

Gulfs,  glowing  with  unutterable  lust, 

Languid,  yet  taunting,  rich  with  ebon  gleam ; 

While  vaulted,  coral-nippled  breasts  of  fire, 

Wrapped  in  long  gauzen  robes  of  graceful  fold, 

Struggle  in  throbbing  strength  to  burst  their  gyves, 

And  full  unveil  the  glorious  view  of  heat — • 

In  vain  subdued,  forever  seething  o'er, 

In  all  the  angry  unbaulked  power  of  love. 

Flooding  her  dimpled  nac'rat  siren  cheek, 


c0 
0 


PHRYNE. 
\ 

Rubied  by  blushes,  she  can  ne'er  conceal 

Which  spread  through  that  imperious  form  divine, 

Yearning  to  revel,  carnally  intense, 

In  fiercest  throes  of  concupiscent  bliss. 

While  Circe-spells  spring  from  her  melting  gaze, 

Resistless,  mighty,  arrogant,  supreme  ! 

Towering  in  passion's  royal  foaming  coils, 

Which  must  intolerable  be  to  feel, 

And  prove  a  tempter  to  a  faith-girt  saint. 

See,  the  pearl-studded  chalice  in  her  hand 

She  grasps,  while  o'er  its  scintillating  brim 

Flows  the  Falernian  nectar,  sweet  and  rich, 

Exhaling  mordant  fumes  of  savory  grape, 

Luring  soul-damning,  riotous  unrest 

To  fill  a  heart  o'erladen  with  desire, 

Invincible,  erotic,  scorning  bounds  : 

While  Greece,  enamored  at'  her  jeweled  feet, 

Offers  a  nation's  ransom  for  one  beam 

Of  pungent  ardor  from  her  cloy-lit  eyes, 

Or  yet  to  feel  the  candent  contact  choice 

Of  her  round  limbs,  which  madly  would  excite 

And  drown  the  soul  of  the  most  am'rous  known 

In  wanton  seas  of  bliss  ineffable  ! 


NON    CREDO. 

I,  AS  a  lover,  gloat 

When  gazing  on  some  fond 

Fair  beauty  frail  and  blonde, 
And  as  I  chat,  to  note 

How  my  false  words  inspire 

Her  latent  love  desire. 

A  strange  and  mystic  charm, 

A  magnetizing  spell, 

A  secret  none  can  tell, 
Too  subtle  for  alarm, 

Pervades  her  witched  sense 

With  mysteries  immense. 

I  poison  with  a  glance, 

The  venom  of  my  look 

No  beauty's  eye  can  brook, 
Save  in  the  languid  trance, 

Which,  summoned  by  my  power, 

Causes  a  blissful  hour. 

I  ask  no  favors  yet, 

The  beauty  offers  all ; 

Her  roscid  liplets  call 
Eager  for  kissing  wet ; 

And  passion  is  the  source 

Whence  flows  my  magic  force. 


'  NON  CREDO. 

Her  face,  with  heat  aflush, 
Is  kissed  by  am'rous  air — 
She  breathes,  while  floods  of  hair 

Hide  not  her  bosom's  blush  ; 
Her  parched  mouth  is  weak, 
Powerless  is  tongue  to  speak. 

Her  hand  is  clasped  in  mine, 
Her  fulgid  half-closed  eyes, 
Dimmed  by  a  mute  surprise, 

No  longer  blink  and  shine  ; 
Ecstatic  odors  deep 
Amort  those  eyes  in  sleep. 

And  still  I  cannot  love 
That  beauty  as  she  sighs : 
I  am  her  only  prize  ; — 

Yet,  as  she  looks  above, 

Mine  orbs  see  not  her  youth, 
My  mind's  eye  sees  the  truth. 

And  then,  her  eyes  so  blue 

Vanish  before  my  stare  ; 

Stern  truths  my  vision  glare, — 
Stern,  bitter,  saddest  view; 

Two  cavities  of  bone 

I  see,  and  that  alone  ! 

Her  hot  and  pulsing  breast 

Withers  before  my  sight ; 

A  picture  of  affright 
Fills  my  mind  doubt-oppressed; 

Her  laughing  mouthlet  leers, 

A  skeleton  appears  ! 


NOW  CREDO. 

Each  beauty  is  the  same, 

Hell  gives  me  power  to  win ; 

I  force  them  to  the  sin, 
And  can  resistance  tame  ; 

Their  sweet  joy  is  my  pain, 

I  cannot  love  again. 

In  vain  I  strive  to  find 

The  rapture  I  can  give ; 

My  riot  soul  must  live 
In  fancies  dull  and  blind  ; 

Illusion,  fraud,  and  guile 

Is  woman's  sweetest  smile. 

And  at  an  age  when  men 

Love  with  their  youth  and  might, 

I  find  but  rot  and  blight 
With  my  grim  skeptic  ken  ; 

No  beauty  can  I  trust, 

I  see  but  bone  and  rust ! 

With  satin  and  with  silk 

They  deck  and  clothe  their  frames; 

Their  breath  is  hot  as  flames, 
Their  breast  is  white  as  milk, 

Yet  they  will  always  be 

But  skeletons  for  me. 


53 


SPLEEN. 

ALL  is  sad  !  all  is  sad  ! 
When  the  soul's  gangrene 

Belcheth  out  from  the  brain 

Its  rank  torrent,  to  stain 

A  mind  mad — 
With  the  nausea  of  spleen. 

All  is  gloom  !  all  is  gloom  ! 
When  foul  thoughts,  knife-keen 

Venom  life  and  its  joys. 

When  existence  annoys, 

And  the  tomb 
As  a  great  Light  is  seen. 

All  is  lost !  all  is  lost ! 

When  our  bliss  terrene 

Fails  to  cure  the  dire  plague 
Of  gloom-thoughts  sad  and  vague, 
Of  life  crossed 

By  the  gall-kiss  of  spleen. 


54 


ARABESQUE. 

AN  Orient  sun  with  dazzling  rays 

On  Stamboul  shone. 
The  mosques  had  closed,  the  muezzin's  gong 

Had  ceased  to  .moan. 
The  golden  minarets,  clad  in  sheen, 

Glittered  like  fire. 
A  silence  o'er  the  city  fell, 

Sombre  and  dire. 

The  blue-waved  Bosphorus  alone 

Serene,  at  rest, 
Ebbed  idly  round  the  gilded  caiques 

Rocked  on  its  breast. 
While  fishermen,  on  either  shore, 

Basked  in  the  sun, 
Invoking  Allah's  grace  in  dreams 

111  fates  to  shun. 

The  Sultan,  Abdul  Medjid  Khan, 

Gazed  on  the  sea, 
From  the  court  of  "  Silv'ry  Crescent," 

In  revery ; 
Inhaling  clouds  of  pearly  smoke 

From  hookah  tipped, 
As  he  slowly  and  with  relish 

His  Mocha  sipped. 

55 


5  6  ARABESQUE. 

Pastilles,  perfumed  of  incense  rare, 

Burned  by  his  side. 
Swart  eunuchs  watched  his  ev'ry  sign 

Alert,  lynx-eyed. 
Refreshing  sherbets,  nedds,  and  wine 

Before  him  lay. 
Quaint  bearded  dwarfs — fair  odalisks — 

Stood  to  obey. 


He  murmured  low  the  Sala  sweet, 

Drooping  his  head, 
And  breathed  a  rice-bound  papiros 

Latakia  fed. 
Then  gazed  out  on  the  sunny  court, 

Out  on  the  "Horn," 
A  gaze  sad,  long,  and  lingering, 

A  gaze  forlorn. 


Weary  of  life  was  proud  Abdul 

Of  zebraed  domes ; 
Sickened  of  all  the  revelries 

Where  th'  Euxine  foams. 
His  spires  and  tekkes,  towers  and  mosques, 

Brought  no  content ; 
And  it  seemed  as  if  by  sadness 

His  soul  was  rent. 


The  harem  long  had  ceased  to  charm, 
Though  chosen  slaves 

Graced  its  poetic  labyrinths, 
Sacred  as  graves. 


ARABESQUE.  57 

His  wrinkled  vizirs  still  were  true, 

And  blessed  his  name, 
While  turbaned  zaims  and  agas  fought 

For  Crescent's  fame. 


What  was  it  then  that  deep  annoyed 

The  satrap's  whims? 
What  fierce,  relentless,  gnawing  spleen 

Unnerved  his  limbs  ? 
Could  he  not  consolation  find 

In  music's  ties  ? 
In  melody's  warm  sympathies 

To  banish  sighs  ? 

Love  and  affection  soothed  him  not, 

Nor  eased  his  mind  ; 
Despite  fame,  pomp,  and  glory, 

Poor  Abdul  pined. 
The  Koran's  holy  precepts  failed 

To  cheer  his  brain, 
And  a  cure  for  melancholy 

He  sought  in  vain. 

But  sudden  rose  the  Eastern  prince, 

With  visage  staid, 
Uttered  an  order  to  a  slave, 

Who  swift  obeyed. 
A  chiseled  box  of  scented  wood 

Brought  he,  with  fan ; 
The  black  attendants  disappeared  : 

'Lone  stood  the  Khan. 
6 


58  ARABESQUE. 

With  nimble  hand  turned  he  the  lid, 

Opened  and  gazed, 
While  in  his  nut-brown  orbs  a  gleam 

Of  pleasure  blazed. 
Encased  within,  the  sultan  spied 

A  crimson  paste, 
Sweet-swelling,  of  sebaceous  touch, 

Of  acrid  taste. 


The  essence  of  an  Arab  plant, 

Venom  most  dire, 
Haschisch,  in  all  its  scarlet  charm, 

Glimmered  like  fire. 
And  yet  the  Sultan  breathed  its  fumes 

With  joy  supreme, 
As  hungry  ghouls  o'er  clotted  blood 

Sniffle  and  scream. 


With  trembling  grasp  the  prurient  prince 

In  Mocha  dipped 
The  contents  of  the  fragrant  box, 

And  savage,  sipped — 
The  fiery  drink  that  gnawed  his  heart, 

Spurred  on  his  brain, 
Till  utter  chaos  filled  the  soul, 

And  banished  pain. 

At  first,  a  myth  of  beauty  rare 

Lulled  him  to  rest. 
He  dreamt  he  stood  in  Paradise, 

By  Prophet  blest. 


ARABESQUE.  59 

In  Eden's  verdant  groves  he  roamed, 

With  glory  crowned, 
And,  musing,  thought  that  happiness 

He  last  had  found. 


But  no  !  the  vision  glided  by, 

Houris,  clad-white, 
Gazed  at  him  long  and  tenderly, 

Eyed-iolite. 
In  thrilling  bliss  he  followed  them 

Through  fields  of  air ; 
On,  on,  his  febrile  whim  pursued, 

Befouled  by  care. 

Crude  angers  boiled  in  Abdul's  mind, 

By  angels  baulked. 
With  sullen  voice  and  savage  threat, 

In  dreams  he  stalked. 
The  blue-eyed  seraphim  with  smiles 

Tempted  him  near, 
Then  vanished  in  a  flaky  cloud, 

With  jest  and  jeer. 


Giant  of  stride,  he  paced  the  court 

With  fiend-like  laugh, 
Pausing  anon  to  seize  his  cup 

And  poison  quaff. 
With  madd'ning  shriek  and  curdling  oath 

Mahomet  cursed, 
Until  his  heart  in  agony, 

Gall-flushed,  did  burst. 


ARABESQUE. 

With  keen-edged  scimitar  he  smote 

His  slaves  appalled. 
And  in  his  wild  delirium, 

On  Satan  called  ! 
The  blood-red  venom  on  his  lips 

Foamed  as  he  kecked  ; 
Rabid  he  bit,  loon-frantic  tore, 

Like  demon  checked  ! 


Then,  with  a  puma-bound,  he  sprang, 

With  maniac  yell, 
To  the  open,  sculptured  casement, 

His  road  to  hell ! 
Giddy  and  reckless,  down  he  plunged, 

On  spikes  of  stone, 
And  perished  like  an  Infidel, 

Without  a  groan  ! 

The  sharp-toothed  gateway  pierced  him  through, 

And,  as  he  hung, 
The  alarum-bell  resounded, 

With  brazen  tongue.  * 

His  mangled  corpse  was  taken  down, 

In  pomp  arrayed, 
While  dervishes  and  imans  knelt, 
-  And  fervent  prayed. 


A  vesper  sun,  with  scarlet  rays, 

On  Stamboul  shone ; 
The  mosques  had  closed,  the  muezzin's  gong 

Had  ceased  to  moan  ; 


.SPIRIT   VOICES.  6 1 

The  golden  min'rets,  clad  in  sheen, 

Glittered  like  fire; 
A  silence  o'er  the  city  fell, 

Sombre  and  dire.   , 


SPIRIT    VOICES. 

WHAT  can  those  spirit  voices  be, 
Of  such  strange,  solemn  melody, 
That  are  forever  haunting  me  ? 

Sounds  that  I  fear, 

Mystic  and  drear, 

Jarring  my  ear ; 
Voices  ever  haunting  me, 

What  can  they  be  ? 

They  come  from  the  deep  dark  blue  sea, 
The  restless,  wavy,  foam-tipped  sea, 
Weird  voices  ever  haunting  me ; 

When  tempests  roar, 

And  billows  pour 

Upon  the  shore, 
I  hear  those  voices  haunting  me, 

What  can  they  be  ? 

When  winds  blow  gently  o'er  the  lea, 
The  rustling  leaves  of  ev'ry  tree 
Are  filled  with  voices  haunting  me ; 
6* 


62  SPIRIT   VOICES. 

They  sob  and  whine, 
Through  fir  and  pine, 
And  fragrant  bine ; 
Those  phantom  voices  haunting  me, 
What  can  they  be  ? 

They  clang  in  kirk-bells'  harmony, 
They  chant  and  laud,  with  fairy  glee, 
Those  sombre  voices  haunting  me  ; 

With  brazen  peal 

The  echoes  reel, 

And  o'er  me  steal; 
Those  spirit  echoes  haunting  me, 

What  can  they  be  ? 

Often  I  pray  on  bended  knee 

For  strength'the  ghastly  sound  to  flee, 

Of  voices  ever  haunting  me  ; 

With  demon's  skill, 

Their  laugh  so  shrill, 

My  senses  thrill ; 
Those  spectral  voices  haunting  me, 

What  can  they  be  ? 

And  when  I  ask  in  agony 

If  e'er  again  I  shall  be  free 

From  all  those  voices  haunting  me, 

Fierce  shadows  loom, 

And  from  the  gloom 

Point  to  a  tomb, 
Dug  by  the  spirits  haunting  me ! — 

What  can  they  be  ? 


CANZONE. 

I  LOVE  a  cobalt  sky, 

When  the  eye — 
Dazed  by  the  lucent  view, 
Errs  in  a  world  of  blue — 
Charmed  by  the  sapphirine — 

Of  its  sheen. 

Small  sable  clouds  soar  past, 

Airy  fast : 

Ere  the  storm  has  begun — 
The  calid  golden  sun, 
Pierces  them  with  its  light, 

In  their  flight. 

My  heart  is  like  the  sky 

I  descry ; 

One  vast  expanse  of  joy — 
With  Love  and  Hope  as  buoy, 
Ignoring  days  of  woe — 

Here  below. 

Dark  clouds  of  grief  and  pain, 

Pass  in  vain  : 
My  mind  is  like  the  sun, 
The  clouds  melt  one  by  one — 
In  glorious  streams  of  song, 
Light  and  long. 

63 


SONG    OF   UKRAINE. 

WITH  bleeding  bit  and  frantic  neigh, 

A  horse  nigh  goaded  unto  pain, 
Drags  o'er  the  Dnieper's  steppes  a  sleigh, 
While,  as  he  speeds,  the  ebbing  day 
Darts  its  pale  shadows  on  the  plain. 

The  cutting  blast  in  fury,  stirs — 

Through  veils  of  blinding  snow  and  sleet 
The  raw,  bleak,  tempest-beaten  firs, 
As  like  a  yielding  arrow,  whirrs — 

The  panting  beast,  shod  lightning  fleet. 

Within,  a  fur-wrapped  female  form, 

"With  virile  nerve,  the  courser  guides : 
She  heedeth  not  the  whining  storm, 
Why  should  she  care,  her  heart  is  warm — 
On  !  on  !  the  light  Kabitka  glides. 

Snug  on  her  lap  her  infant  lies 

Sheltered  and  safe  from  rime  and  frost  : 
The  mother's  gaze  invokes  the  skies, 
Tears,  frozen  stiff,  bedim  her  eyes, 

Twelve  dreary  versts  must  still  be  crossed. 

The  tempest's  wrath  she  does  not  fear, 

She  cowers  not  'neath  the  sheets  of  hail; 
The  houseless  road  is  long  and  drear, 
But  buoyant  hope  is  there  to  cheer — 
Its  voice  is  stronger  than  the  gale. 
64 


SONG    OF   UKRAINE.  65 

But  hark  !  what  are  those  sounds  that  thrill 

The  very  marrow  in  her  bones ! 
Raucous  and  horrid  echoes  chill 
Her  bubbling  blood ;  while  sharp  and  shrill 

They  mingle  with  the  wind's  sad  moan. 

Gaunt,  hairy  wolves,  behungered,  dash 
With  frosty  snort  beside  the  sleigh  : 
She  sees  their  small  white  teeth  that  gnash, 
She  sees  their  small  fire-eyes  that  flash, 
She  hears  them  clamor  for  their  prey  ! 

She  shrinks  :   their  grisly  jaws  athirst, 
Close  by  her  arm  protrude  and  gape — 

With  vigorous  blow  she  slays  the  first, 

The  others  stop  to  feast — a  verst 
Is  gained;  and  she  may  yet  escape. 

But  no  !  the  shaggy  brutes  appear 

Bolder :  hot  blood  has  made  them  wild. 
Pressed  by  the  frenzy  of  their  leer, 
The  swooning  mother,  mazed  by  fear, 
With  vital  shriek,  hurls  out  her  child  ! 


The  glimmering  of  the  day  shines  bright, 

Two  horsemen  to  the  village  go  : 
They  pause  mid-road,  and  there  alight, 
For  human  bones,  picked  clean  and  white, 
Lay  scattered  o'er  the  thawing  snow. 


SOULS    OF    FIRE. 

GLORY  to  thee,  oh  Soul  of  Fire  ! 
The  pulseless  souls  of  gods  expire, 
But  thou  burn'st  deathless  in  thine  ire. 

Glory  to  thee  ! 

Fattened  on  ruin,  blight,  and  gore, 
Soul  lacking  sense,  for  evermore 
In  spheres  of  wonder  doomed  to  soar. 

Glory  to  thee  ! 

Vassal  of  Satan,  proudly  stern  : 
Pity-castrated,  made  to  spurn — 
Anguish  unheeding,  blaze  and  burn  !  . 

Glory  to  thee  ! 

Once  hadst  thou  altar,  slave,  and  shrine, 
Once  hadst  thou  priest  thy  flame  to  tine, 
Once  as  the  powers  of  God  didst  shfne. 

Glory  to  thee  ! 

Now  is  thy  sacred  might  austere, 
By  nescient  mortals  cursed  in  fear, 
They  cringe  beneath  thy  crackling  clear. 

Glory  to  thee  ! 

But  when  their  tortured  bodies  wring — 
With  scorching  yaup;  toucht  by  thy  sting, 
Recall  thee  that  thy  laws  I  sing. 

Glory  to  thee  ! 
66 


SOULS    OF  FIRE.  67 

I  dreamt,  unnerved  by  feverish  sleep, 
That  in  an  Aztec  temple — deep — 
Below  its  crypts,  where  mages  keep 

The  holy  rites, 

I  wandered ;  and  with  tremor  viewed 
The  sacrifices  fell,  and  rude, 
Offered  to  queme  the  Fire  Soul's  mood 

And  stay  its  spites. 

The  sacred  flamelets  lush  and  gair, 
With  vacillating  bluish  glare, 
Blazed  on  a  shrine  of  sculpture  rare ; 

Guarded  by  priests : 
While  in  the  solemn  site  there  strolled, 
Two  haughty  lions,  gaunt  and  bold, 
Gloaring  with  fulvid  eyes  of  gold 

For  fleshy  feasts ! 

Around  the  massive  altars,  soiled, 

With  clotted  blood,  with  mire  bemoiled, 

Huge  famished  reptiles  crept  and  coiled 

With  slimy  gyre. 

While  sizy  tongue,  erect  and  spiss, 
With  frenzied  gape  and  jarring  hiss, 
Spat  from  foul  fangs  their  venomed  kiss 

Upon  the  fire  ! 

Near  to  the  hallowed  spot  lay  bound, 
With  gyves  and  shackles,  to  the  ground, 
Victims  fear-palsied  by  the  sound 

Of  snakes  accursed. 
Sentenced  to  glut  their  greedings  dern 
And  Quetzalcoatl's  anger  turn  : 
For  skin  must  char,  and  blood  must  burn, 

To  slake  his  thirst ! 


68  SOULS   OF  FIRE. 

Despite  despairing  wail  and  groan, 
The  martyrs  in  the  vault  are  thrown, 
Where  to  the  Fire  God's  heart  of  stone 

They  shriek  for  grace  ! 
I  see  the  serpents  glide  in  swarms — 
Their  grumous  clasp  the  cold  limbs  warms- 
They  wind  about  their  quaking  forms 

With  tight  embrace  ! 

The  lions  shake  their  shaggy  mane, 
Their  jaws  are  tinged  with  crimson  stain, 
Lust-howls  blend  low  with  howls  of  pain 

And  gasps  of  dread  ! 
The  snakes  with  torpor  fall  inert, 
The  beasts  o'ergorged  wawl  in  dirt, 
The  Soul  of  Fire  alone  alert — 

Burns  ruddy  red  ! 


Glory  to  thee  !   oh  Soul  of  Fire  ! 
The  pulseless  souls  of  gods  expire, 
But  thou  burn'st  deathless  in  thine  ire. 
Glory  to  thee  ! 


THE    GHOUL. 

DEEP  in  the  ombred  labyrinth — 

Of  a  weird  mystic  wood, 
Lost  in  a  verdant  maze  of  leaves, 

Four  giant  oak-trees  stood. 
And  on  their  heavy  nodous  boughs, 

Strange  speckled  night-birds  purled, 
While  round  their  knarry  rugged  trunks — 

The  ivy  lithely  queried. 

A  gloomy,  sombre  silence  reigned — 

In  that  sepulchral  nook  ; 
Save  when  the  doleful  brumal  blast, 

The  crooked  branches  shook. 
And  then  the  wind-bent  leaflets  moaned — 

With  low,  uneasy  sigh  ; 
Like  the  voice  of  wandering  spirits, 

Lamenting  through  the  sky. 

Close  by  the  ancient  mammoth  trees, 

Half  hidden  by  the  gloom — 
Of  curved  firs,  and  stately  pines, 

There  stood  a  simple  tomb, 
Of  rugose  stone,  besprent  with  moss, 

Of  cryptish  glaucous  green, 
That  glistened  like  an  emerald, 

Beneath  the  glow-worm's  sheen. 

7  69 


THE    GHOUL. 

The  nearest  hamlet  kirk  had  tolled, 
The  solemn,  midnight  hour. 

And  through  the  queach,  its  droning  clang- 
Aroused  an  occult  power. 

For  as  the  echo  fainter  grew, 
Upon  the  sulph'rous  air; 

A  crescent  moonbeam  pierced  the  copse — 
And  shone  with  phantom  glare. 

Then  the  huge  oak-trees  seemed  to  breathe  ! 

Their  feathered  inmates  trilled  ! 
While  odd,  mysterious  footsteps  near — 

The  soul  with  panic  filled  ! 
A  choking  nidorous  miasm  foul — 

Spread  through  the  haunted  glade, 
As  slimy  newts,  and  olid  efts, 

Crept  slowly  from  the  shade  ! 


A  huntsman,  lost  within  the  wood — 

During  the  noonday's  heat : 
Had  slept  beneath  the  sturdy  oaks, 

And,  with  kind  rest  replete 
Now  stretched  his  saggy,  yielding  limbs- 

And  stirred  his  sluggish  gaze  ; 
To  find  the  homeward  path  again,  • 

And  leave  the  dreary  maze. 

But  as  he  sought  the  welcome  route — 
His  wandering  steps  to  guide  : 

He  saw  a  wan,  and  pallid  form, 
Forth  from  the  thicket  glide. 


THE    GHOUL. 

A  maiden,  clad  in  flowing  robes — 

Of  pure,  and  spotless  white  ! 
Who  paused,  and  gazed  with  ravishment- 

Upon  the  tranquil  site. 

Ne'er  had  the  hunter  seen  before, 

Such  calm  resplendent  grace  : 
Ne'er  had  he  dreamt  in  troubled  sleep, 

Of  such  a  gentle  face  ! 
Eyes  soundless  in  vague  depths  of  blue — 

Tresses  of  fulgid  gold, 
Lips  like  the  carmine's  ruddy  glow — 

Form  of  a  vieless  mould  ! 


Who  can  this  sylph-like  creature  be 

Pensive  before  that  stone  ? 
Is  she  a  myth,  a  fancied  form — 

What  seeketh  she  alone  ? 
Sure  'tis  some  sorrowed  maiden,  come- 

O'er  a  loved  grave  to  weep  : 
Why  does  she  bend  so  eagerly  ? 

Why  that  death  vigil  keep  ? 


Yet  now  she  digs  in  frantic  haste — 

The  moist  and  turbid  soil ; 
See  how  her  soft  and  tender  hands 

Seem  heedless  of  the  toil ! 
What  has  she  found,  she  huggeth  so  ? 

Strange  !   'tis  a  form  she  holds — 
So  tightly,  with  such  ouphic  glee, 

And  with  her  arms  enfolds  ! 


THE    GHOUL. 

Heavens  !  she  kisses  it,  and  now — 

Her  hands  are  red  with  blood : 
While  drops  of  clotted  gore  ooze  fast, 

And  trickle  in  the  mud  ! 
Hah  !  hah!  that  laugh,  that  sick'ning  grin — 

She  holds  a  putrid  corpse  ! 
See  with  what  rage  she  biteth  it ! 

Look  how  she  tears,  and  warps  ! 

That  spectral  maiden,  saintly  meek — 

Was  but  a  fiendish  Ghoul  : 
Who  carrion  gorged,  while  hell-kites  croaked 

Awed  to  obey  her  rule. 
She  bade  them  share  her  midnight  feast 

And  dabble  in  the  gore, 
And  as  they  helped  her  cleave  the  flesh 

Then  would  she  laugh  the  more  ! 

The  horror-stricken  huntsman  knelt — 

Breathing  a  fervent  prayer: 
Which  blended  with  the  grumbling  low, 

Of  cougars  in  their  lair. 
While  elves,  and  gnomes,  with  flamant  eyes 

Darted  around  the  trees — 
Adding  their  hootings  to  the  owls, 

That  mingled  with  the  breeze. 

This  odious  spot  he  fain  would  leave — 

And  rose  to  steal  away  : 
Only  the  siren  Ghoul  had  seen, 

And  scented  other  prey. 


THE    GHOUL. 

Seductive  was  her  bell-like  voice, 

Magnetic  was  her  will, 
Alluring  was  her  lascive  glance — 

Resistless  was  her  skill ! 


She  drew  him  near — and  nearer  still — 

And  clasped  him  in  her  arms  : 
Though  all  his  angry  soul  rebelled, 

From  her  blood-smeared  charms. 
She  nustled  him  with  childish  joy, 

Upon  her  globous  breast : 
And  with  her  reeking,  gory  lips — 

His  quivering  form  caressed  ! 

Gyved  by  an  unknown,  subtle  power, 

Irfert  the  hunter  stayed  : 
While  in  a  passion-blinded  dream — 

Her  lustful  will  obeyed. 
For  with  erotic  fury  fierce, 

This  Ghoulish  scene  of  love 
Passed  'neath  the  oak-tree's  shade  below, 

The  moon's  wild  leer  above  ! 


The  demon  drained  her  victim's  fire, 

Then  vanished  into  space  : 
While  all  the  stunted  roytish  gnomes, 

Followed  her  burning  trace. 
But  swift  returned,  to  romp  and  dance, 

With  wild  and  raucous  shout ; 
Around  the  vimless,  dying  man — 

His  agony  to  flout. 
7* 


73 


74 


RE  VERIE. 

A  hazy  mist,  before  the  dawn — 

Was  struggling  with  the  sun  : 
Th'  enchanted  oak-trees,  rustled  low, 

Seeming  its  rays  to  shun. 
But  when  its  candent  gleam  had  pierced 

The  foliage  and  the  gloom, 
Two  half-picked  skeletons  were  seen, 

Clasped  to  the  rugged  tomb  ! 


REVERIE. 

OFTEN  have  I  sat  in  wonder, 
When  the  distant  booming  thunder, 
Seemed  to  rend  the  sky  asunder — 

With  its  hoarse  discordant  blare. 
With  its  echoes  loud  resounding, 
With  its  dull  and  heavy  pounding, 
Its  alarum  shrill  rebounding, 

Through  the  cloudy  ashy  air. 
While  the  forked  lightning  blazing, 
The  blue  vault  of  Heaven  upraising, 
And  the  eye  with  terror  dazing — 
With  its  lurid  fulvid  stare : 
With  its  livid  ghastly  glare  : 
With  its  vivid  flash  and  flare  : 
And  its  horrifying  dazzle,  of  danger,  and  despair. 

Long  years  ago  I  saw  this  sight : 
One  stormy  boisterous  winter's  night, 
Beneath  a  cresset's  murky  light, 
On  the  ocean  deep  and  vast. 


REVERIE.  75 

And  I  listened  to  the  grumbling, 

To  the  low  and  dismal  rumbling, 

And  the  incoherent  mumbling, 
Of  the  keen  and  icy  blast. 

Stirring  up  a  wild  commotion, 

On  the  surface  of  the  ocean, 

Filling  me  with  strange  emotion — 

While  vague  mem'ries  of  the  past : 
In  my  mind's  eye  gathered  fast : 
Each  one  sadder  than  the  last : 
Fantastic,  dreamy  glimpses,  of  the  unforgotten  Past. 

As  I  mused  on  that  and  this, 
Harked  I  to  the  tempest's'hiss, 
Heard  I  its  cold  chilly  kiss ; 

On  the  desert  cliffs  of  stone. 
While  above  the  clouds  soared  scowling, 
And  the  frigid  blasts  kept  howling, 
With  a  rigid  mystic  growling, 

And  with  wild  and  savage  groan. 
My  sad  rhapsodies  all  shocking, — 
The  mad  waves  eternal  rocking, — 
Seemed  my  anguish  to  be  mocking, — 

As  I  sat  there  all  alone  : 

Listening  to  their  monotone  : 

And  their  whining  sigh  and  moan : 
Warning  me,  then  and  forever,  for  all  sinnings  to  atone. 


And  their  brusque  incessant  splashing, 

In  dense  sheets  of  surf-sheen  dashing, 

The  gaunt  cliffs  and  beaches  lashing, 

With  their  everlasting  pour. 


76  REVERIE. 

My  poor  heart  with  tremor  filling, 
All  my  numbed  senses  thrilling, 
And  my  very  marrow  chilling, 

With  their  dull  and  sullen  roar. 
As  the  billows  onward  creeping, 
O'er  each  other  playing,  leaping, 
Time  by  smaller  wavelets  keeping, 

On  the  surf-bespangled  shore  : 

As  they  did  in  days  of  yore  : 

As  they  will  for  evermore : 

With  their  never-ceasing  clamor,  and  their  rough  and 
raucous  roar. 

I  saw  ships  all  cleft  and  shattered, 
With  their  rigging  torn  and  tattered, 
With  their  decks  and  bulwarks  battered, 

By  the  fierce  and  bitter  gale. 
The  billows  wild  and  wilder  grew — : 
As  o'er  their  crests,  the  doomed  ships  flew, 
To  soundings,  where  the  tempest  knew, 

They  would  find  no  helping  sail. 
Where  engulfed  by  ocean's  panic, 
And  the  sea-god's  rage  satanic, 
'Neath  the  lightning  gleams  volcanic, 

No  survivor  could  unveil : 

The  sad  secret  of  the  tale : 

Causing  listeners  to  quail : 

For  ev'ry  wretch  aboard  them,  perished  in  the  frantic 
gale. 

With  sad  and  sempiternal  dirge, 

Those  fuming  billows  capped  with  surge, 

Still  revel  on  the  ocean's  gurge, 

By  the  shrieking  breezes  fanned. 


REVERIE.  77 

Like  a  mighty  limbed  giant, 

Stalwart  sinewy  defiant, 

Tortuous  flexile  deep  and  pliant, 
Still  roll  on  in  splendor  grand. 

Ever  ebbing,  pulsing,  beating, 

In  round  bubbling  eddies  meeting, 

Their  odd  vagaries  repeating, 

Playing  on  the  pebbled  sand  : 
On  the  lone  and  dreary  strand  : 
With  a  power  none  can  withstand : 
Sent  there  by  some  grand  eternal,  strange  and  solemn 
unknown  hand. 

I  still  sit  on  that  barren  shore  ; 
And  listen  to  the  angry  roar — 
Of  care  and  sorrow  as  they  pour, 

In  the  Ocean  of  my  mind. 
My  ships  of  Hope,  are  wrecked  and  lost, 
My  whims  and  wishes  spurned  and  crossed, 
By  sternest  Fate  with  heart  of  frost, 

Cheerless,  pitiless,  unkind. 
And  so  'tis  ever  throughout  life, 
Nothing  but  turmoil,  woe  and  strife, 
A  painful  dream  with  tempests  rife, 

Baffling  us  like  helpless  blind. 

If  for  calm  we  once  have  pined  : 

Surely  comes  some  frigid  wind  : 

To  chill  our  hopes,  until  in  Death,  we  can  a  balsam 
find. 


SONNET. 

I  OF  a  fiend  the  heart  had,  thou  as  God 
Good  and  most  lenient,  merciful  soul-kind, 
Forgave  my  mutiny  andTebel  mind 
Aye  !  when  thy  hand  could  wield  the  avenging  rod 
When  at  thy  will  thou  couldst  .have  crushed  to  sod, 
(Barren  and  foul  of  thought  like  mine,  where  blind 
I  culled  the  dirt  I  threw  thee,  hadst  thou  pined 
To  hurl  thy  sdains  upon  my  cringing  nod 
That  all  avowed  !)  yet  thou  wert  nobly  good, 
As  'neath  thy  scathing  gaze  abashed  I  stood, 
Penitent,  pallid  by  fierce  shames,  but  thou 
Pardoned  me  all — my  heinous  sin  and  more  ; 
Does  not  the  yielding  wood  of  santal  bough 
Perfume  the  cruel  axe  that  strikes  its  core  ? 


SONNET. 

FROM  out  the  deep  dark  glooms  of  doubt  and  pain, 
Thy  love's  star-radiance,  nascent,  soon  shall  shine. 

Splendent  of  carnal  glamour  from  thy  brain 
Like  precious  stones  behued  in  tints'divine, 

That  hide  in  dazzling  depths  a  soul  long  lain, 
A  spirit  crystallized,  infused,  benign  ! 
78 


PARIS.  79 

The  gem  ignores  its  soul's  deep  glowing  vein, 

Thy  soul  ignores  the  gem-love  that  is  thine  ! 
But  I  have  come  to  fray  the  path  to  spheres 

Whose  secret  thrills,  whose  dizzy  height  endears, 
For  I  will  revel  in  their  glorious  gloom, 

Born  to  enjoy  the  wonders  of  thine  eyes — 
The  riot  splendors  of  their  vague  perfume, 

Thy  soft  and  amorous  symphonies  of  sighs ! 


PARIS. 

THOU  noblest  and  fairest  of  cities — 
Art  scoffed  at  by  others  for  Sin  ; 

They  lavish  their  taunts,  and  mock  pities, 
On  the  vices  thou  brewest  within : 
They  gloat  o'er  thy  ruin  ;  and  grin — 

When  they  sing  of  thy  name  in  their  ditties. 

They  belch  forth  their  vomit  of  slander, 
And  their  volleys  of  insults  rain  : 

They  tell  thee  'twixt  harlot  and  pander, 
That  thy  fame  has  rotted  with  stain  : 
That  thou  strives!  to  rise  in  vain — 

Aye  !  they  tell  thee  all  this  in  their  candor 

Unarmed,  when  thou  fell'st  in  war's  chasms 
Did  they  e'er  lend  a  pitying  ear? 

In  the  throes  of  death,  did  thy  spasms 
Dim  their  eyes  with  a  single  tear  ? 
No :  but  cynical  smile  they  and  leer 

When  they  tell  thee  thy  hopes  are  but  phasms  ! 


8o  PARIS. 

Yet  they  loved  thee  when  rich  and  merry, 
Thy  streets  ran  with  gold  and  with  wine  ! 

How  to  cloy  of  thy  sweets  was  their  query — 
They  praised  thee  as  peerless,  divine, 
And  thou  thought's!  not  when  bowed  at  thy  shrine, 

That  their  gall  in  thy  wounds  they  would  bury. 

With  the  gloss  of  their  speech  have  they  oiled  thee, 
Till  reckless  thou  satedst  their  thirst : 

With  the  mud  of  their  lusts  have  they  soiled  thee 
With  the  stench  of  their  breath  accursed  : 
Till  thine  heart  of  proud  hearts  did  burst — 

When  of  name  and  of  fame  they  despoiled  thee. 

Thy  beauty  deflowered,  they  abase  thee, 
They  ravished  thy  virtue  of  yore  : 

The  hounds  now  yearn  to  disgrace  thee, 
They  sweated  to  make  thee  a  whore — 
But  they  sigh  for  thy  charms  as  before — 

And  clamor  like  beasts  to  embrace  thee  ! 

Be  it  so  :   they  a  bawd  have  begotten — 
And  thy  shrine  is  bespattered  with  grime ; 

But  for  thinkers  thy  sins  are  forgotten, 
For  thou  blushest  not  in  thy  crime, 
While  thy  cavillers  hide  in  slime — 

The  foul  secrets  of  vices  more  rotten  ! 

PARIS,  August,  1872. 


CELLE  que  j'ai  le  plus  aimee 
Avait  la  taille  d'une  almee, 

De  gros  yeux  bleus  au  long  cil  noir. 
Un  teint  de  rose  et  de  neige, 
Comme  1'Alba.ne  et  le  Correge 

Seuls  dans  le  reve  ont  pu  voir. 

Ses  cheveux  plus  bruns  que  1'ebene 
Trainaient  comme  un  manteau  de  reine 

Sur  un  corps  aux  divins  contours. 
Sa  bouche  etait  petite  et  rose, 
On  cut  dit  deux  feuilles  de  rose — 

Oii  nichait  un  essaim  d'amours. 

Ses  deux  mains  tenaient  dans  la  mienne 
Dans  le  baiser  sa  fraiche  haleine 

Avait  des  effluves  de  feu. 
Sa  voix  etait  un  doux  poeme, 
Et  quand  elle  me  disait  "je  t'aime" 

Je  me  sentais  devenir  Dieu —  ! 


81 


THE    SIREN. 

'NEATH  long  lashes, 

Sea-spray  wet : 
Gleams  and  flashes, 

Eye  of  jet — 
Glancing  dreamy, 

On  a  breast ; 
White  and  creamy — 

Wave-caressed : 
Tresses  flowing 

Ambry  light, 
Liplets  glowing 

Scarlet  bright ; 
Form  of  peri — 

Face  of  fay — 
Arch  and  merry, 

Fair  as  day. 
Jewel-laden, 

Zephyr-fanned, 
Sits  a  maiden — 

On  a  strand, 
Green  and  golden, 

In  the  sea — 
Quaintly  moulden, 

Like  a  Z. 


THE  SIREN. 

Rubies  precious, 

Ocean  pearls 
Light  the  meshes — 

Of  her  curls. 
Towards  the  islet, 

In  a  boat — 
Steers  a  pilot, 

Come  to  gloat — 
On  the  creature, 

Siren-charmed — 
On  each  feature, 

Unalarmed : 
Near,  and  nearer, 

Glides  the  bark — 
Clear,  and  clearer, 

Shines  the  spark — 
Of  her  glancing, 

While  her  smile — 
Soul  entrancing, 

Masks  its  guile : 
Lures  him  ravished 

To  her  feet, 
Bliss  unlavished 

Long  and  sweet — 
For  his  sorrows 

Full  atones; 
On  the  morrow 

Naught  but  bones- 
Rot,  half  eaten, 

Mixed  with  sand  : 
Billow-beaten, 

On  that  strand, 


84  PICTURETTE. 

Green  and  golden, 
In  the  sea — 

Quaintly  moulden, 
Like  a  Z. 


PICTURETTE. 

THERE'S  a  gloom  on  the  Bridge  of  Sighs, 

A  gloom  on  the  dark  lagoon  : 
The  ripples  swell — the  ripples  rise 
As  over  its  deep,  cold  water,  plies — 
The  glare  of  the  silv'ry  moon. 

There's  a  light  on  the  Bridge  of  Sighs — 

The  light  of  a  lantern's  flame : 
A  mantled  form  in  ambush  lies — 
Grim  ashy  clouds  course  o'er  the  skies, 
The  moon  hides  its  face  in  shame. 

There's  a  step  on  the  Bridge  of  Sighs, 

The  step  of  a  cavalier 
Some  maiden  trysts,  and  swift  he  hies 
To  kiss  and  fondle  a  lovely  prize, 

As  he  speeds,  the  moon  shines  clear. 

There's  a  sound  on  the  Bridge  of  Sighs, 

The  sound  of  a  struggle  loud, 
A  dagger  gleams:  a  shadow  flies, 
An  inert  form  on  the  pavement  lies, 
The  moon  goes  behind  a  cloud.  .   .   . 


FANTAISIE. 

DRAPED  in  light  robes,  with  tarbouked  noul, 

I  love,  half  dreaming,  to  admire — 
My  chibouque's  round  and  polished  bowl, 

And  watch  the  glow  of  opium's  fire. 
Nacarat,  golden,  from  my  soul — 

Its  sensuous  crackling  can  inspire — 
Rare  fancies,  which  my  mind  console, 

When  fading  in  each  smoky  gyre. 

An  Indian  temple,  massive,  grand, 

Looms  'fore  my  sight,  and  towers  in  air — 
Erected  by  a  sorcerer's  hand, 

Of  architecture  strangely  rare. 
While  near  its  sculptured  portals  stand — 

Cohorts  of  slaves,  and  almees  fair, 
Dancing  their  quaint-tuned  saraband, 

With  bronze-tanned  skin,  and  floating  hair. 

I  rove  within  the  Shiraz  vale, 

Where  onyx  fountains  jut  and  play, 
Where  budding  roses,  pink  and  frail, 

Bend  rorid  'neath- their  floods  of  spray  : 
I  slumber  midst  the  lilies  pale — 

I  listen  to  the  linnet's  lay, 
The  subtle  powers  I  quaff;  unveil — 

Sweet  dreams  of  everlasting  day. 

8*  85 


86  FANTAISIE. 

Far  in  a  mosque  I  can  discern, 

Vischnou's  and  Siva's  altars  high  ; 
I  see  the  sacred  fires  that  burn — 

With  quivering  flamelets  to  the  sky. 
I  see  the  dolmaned  Guebers  stern, 

Worship  their  igneous  god,  and  try — 
With  contrite  hearts  to  win  and  earn, 

The  honor  by  his  hand  to  die. 

I  soar  in  dreams,  and  ravished  hear, 

Sung  by  some  bard  of  Gulistan  ; 
A  moallak  soothing  to  the  ear, 

An  echo  of  the  caravan — 
Which  passes  by,  morose  and  drear, 

Out  from  the  town  ;  while,  mute,  I  scan 
The  kandjared  guards,  with  uncouth  gear, 

Pacing  the  streets  of  Ispahan. 

On  fair  Corea's  shelled  stream, 

My  fancy  floats  without  restraint ; 
Pagodas,  wrought  in  porcelain,  teem — 

On  every  side,  of  fabric  quaint. 
While  genii  pleased  my  sense  to  queme, 

The  blue-foamed  Yang-ste-Kiang,  faint- 
Before  my  gaze  depict  in  dream, 

Ebbing  its  ripples  with  my  plaint. 

Traversing  spheres,  I  undismayed, 
Revel  my  view  in  Stamboul's  sheen  ; 

Mahomet's  chosen,  pomp  arrayed — 
Laden  with  glittering  damascene — 


FANTAISIE.  87 

Passes  with  haughty  cavalcade, 

Armed  to  the  teeth  with  scimitars  keen, 

While  o'er  the  turrets  of  Belgrade — 
I  see  the  argent  min'rets  gleen  ! 


In  Norway's  fields,  each  frozen  fjiord, 

Recalls  the  old  chivalric  time : 
The  noble  Saga  of  the  Sword, 

The  Eddas  told  in  Runic  rhyme. 
Olaf  and  Frithiof,  with  their  horde — 

Of  stalwart  warriors,  chapped  by  rime, 
For  me  still  battle  on  that  sward, 

And  chant  their  anthems  in  Drontheim. 


Upsala's  rugose  steeples  dart — 

Their  granite  splendor  through  the  air ; 
Odd  marvel  of  old  Northern  art, 

Is  this  sad,  solemn  site  of  prayer. 
And  'fore  the  shrines,  so  chill  and  swart — 

Kneel  suff'ring  sinners,  bent  by  care, 
As  on  the  rough-hewn  steps,  the  mart — 

Begins  its  bustle,  and  its  blare. 

The  opium's  Spirit,  ah  my  quest, 

Changes  the  scene  to  fair  Seville  : 
Where  alamedas,  sun-love  blessed, 

The  atmosphere  with  perfumes  fill, 
While  jet-eyed  damsels  err  or  rest 

Beneath  the  shade  of  trellised  vill — 
Taunting  their  gallants  to  a  test, 

And  time  with  cigarillos  kill. 


88  FANTAISIE. 

Along  the  Chiaja,  as  I  stroll — 

Vesuvius  belches  forth  its  fire  : 
But  I  can  free,  un trammeled  troul — 

Deep  in  its  jaws,  and  brave  its  ire. 
With  winged  feet  from  pole  to  pole, 

The  spirits  lead,  and  never  tire. 
The  depth  of  depths  is  then  my  goal, 

The  inner  world  is  mine  entire  ! 


Th'  embattled  turrets  of  the  Rhine, 

Sombre  and  breme,  now  greet  my  sight 
O'erhead  the  lucent  asters  shine, 

Shedding  their  calm  opaline  light. 
I  see  within,  elate  with  wine, 

The  earnest  face  of  dame  and  knight, 
Quaffing  the  nectar  of  the  vine — 

Narrating  tales  of  love  and  fight. 

Without,  I  see  the  mystic  dells, 

The  frisky,  fire-haired  gnomes  at  play : 

I  hear  the  dorf-kirk's  mellow  bells — 
I  hear  the  wand' ring  minstrel's  lay. 

The  Elfen-King  his  host  expels, 
To  gambol  till  the  dawn  of  day — 

While  ouphs  and  fairies  brew  their  spells, 
••*-  And  toothless  witches  seek  their  prey. 

On  Egypt's  arid  wastes,  the  Sphinx — 
Startles  my  mind,  now  opium-drunk  : 

My  chain  of  thought,  ungyved  by  links, 
Deep  on  the  dreggy  Nile  is  sunk. 


FANTAISIE.  89 

1  hear  the  snorting  of  the  lynx, 

The  egret's  shriek,  the  crane's  dull  crunk, 
The  mammoth  eye  of  Memnon  winks — 

Chilling  my  ken,  smoke-worn  and  shrunk. 

I  see  huge  Cheops'  tortuous  crypt, 

Its  labyrinths  so  chilly  dark : 
I  see  its  antique  vaults  time-nipped, 

Its  shrivelled  mummies  stiff  and  stark — 
The  ibex  and  the  sacred  script, 

The  Copt's  odd  hierarchic  mark, 
The  iron  urnlets  jewel-tipped — 

And  cinerous  wealth  of  dust  and  chark. 

Fleeing  cloud-wrapped,  refreshed,  I  pass — 

From  out  the  sod  of  colcothar : 
To  view  the  giant  Kremlin's  mass — 

Novgorod's  domes,  and  Kazan's  star. 
Here  hirsute  moujiks  rough  and  crass, 

Swear  by  their  saints,  and  by  their  Czar — 
O'er  ev'ry  mug  of  creamy  Kvas, 

They  tipple  with  their  Kaviar. 

My  balmful  drug  lends  power  to  sate — 

The  novel  yearns  for  which  I  ache : 
Its  genii  as  I  meditate — 

My  thirst  for  airy  whims  can  slake. 
And  with  their  skill,  by  gods  innate, 

O'er  worlds  and  spheres  my  spirit  take, 
Until  my  sleep-cloyed  eyes  nictate, 

And  I  from  my  mad  wandering  wake 


LINES    TO    AN    OPAL.     • 

THOU  fire-veined  stone  of  mystic  hue ! 
Tell  me,  if  by  thy  spell-gaze  true — 

Thou  canst  my  thoughts  reveal? 
And  in  thy  depths  of  lucid  sheen, 
Imprisoned  by  thy  sapphirine, 
Is  there  a  hidden  soul  unseen — 

Watching  with  fairy  zeal  ? 

* 

What  lurks  within  thy  mottled  heart  ? 
Why  do  lush  henna-crimsons  dart — 

Through  thy  vexed,  lustrous  eye  ? 
Then  ebb,  and  flow,  from  Kalan  dyed, 
Into  an  orient  sunny  tide, — 
Of  glaucous  gloss,  thy  gemmed  pride, 

Only  to  fade  and  die. 

Is  it  the  spirit  weird,  and  wild, 

Of  some  strange,  spectral  ouphen  child- 

By  stunted  Kobolds  spurned  ? 
Who  slyly  dwelleth  in  thy  breast, 
Showing  its  grateful  impish  zest, 
By  varied  hue  whene'er  caressed — 

Or  towards  a  sunbeam  turned. 

Set  in  thy  bezil  of  wrought  gold, 
Shimmering  in  thy  matchless  mould — 

Thou  clingest  to  my  hand. 
90 


LINES    TO  AN  OPAL. 


91 


And,  when  the  warm  flesh  burns  and  glows 
Thy  ruby  tinge,  lascivious,  shows — 
The  ardor  that  resistless  grows, 
From  touchy  nerve  to  gland. 

Oh  !  how  I  gloat  to  see  the  flush, 
Precursor  of  thy  am'rous  blush — 

Whene'er  of  Love  I  sing  ! 
Oh  !  how  thy  wavy  sphere  of  fire — 
Pulses,  and  quobs,  of  mad  desire — 
When  'neath  hot  kisses  I  admire, 

Thy  iridescent  ring  ! 

From  a  rich-tinted  emerald  blaze, 

Thou  grin'st  at  me,  with  hate,  to  craze  — 

And  tempt  my  latent  ire  ! 
Then  in  a  crystal  topaz  glance — 
Thy  spirit  calls  a  dreamy  trance, 
My  own  wild  tremor  to  enhance, 

Like  Quetzalcotlian  fire  ! 

And  when  by  gloomy  pain  and  cark — 
I  pine :  then  deadened  in  thy  spark, 

Vanished  thy  fulgor  bright ! 
For  like  a  glassy  troutlet's  eye — 
Filmy  and  hueless  dost  thou  lie, 
Thy  nacker  dimmed,  like  spotted  sky — 

Awaiting  ebon  night. 

Thou  tell'st  me  if  my  love  is  true, 
For  in  thy  azure  smile  so  blue, 
Sunlight  and  glory  shine. 


92 


LINES    TO  AN  OPAL. 

The  buoyant  hope  of  thy  mild  glare, 
Dispels  the  myriad-winged  care  ; 
And  thy  fond  pressure  seems  to  share, 
Joys  that  are  ever  mine. 

The  purple  ray  thou  oft  hast  worn, 
Cometh  alone  when  soul  is  torn — 

By  pangful,  chafing  grief. 
Then  in  its  lilac  flood  I  see, 
Thy  tearful  eye  gaze  up  at  me, 
Condoling  with  my  agony — 

Cheering  beyond  belief. 

But,  when  my  love  is  guileful  found, 
Then  is  thy  face  with  saffron  crowned, 

Effulgent  and  severe ! 
Thou  goad'st  me  on  by  wily  skill — 
Thy  fiendish  orders  to  fulfil — 
And  shunning  pity  speed,  and  kill — 

The  fair  one  I  love  dear. 

Magnetic  is  thy  wondrous  power ; 
And  'neath  its  gnomish  strength  I  cower, 
.  Gyved  in  its  awful  spell. 
For  by  thy  sdainful,  ochreous  leer — 
Inspired — I  will  not  quake  or  fear, 
If  legions  of  thy  damned  appear — 
To  drag  me  to  their  Hell ! 

Aye  !  for  thy  mad  ignescent  light, 
Bewitching  soul  of  crafty  sprite  ; 
Serves  me  as  friend  and  foe. 


TO 


93 


Thy  magic  ogling  tells  me  all — 
While  here  on  Earth— but  if  I  fall- 
Then  will  thy  lurid  gleam  appal, 
A  sinful  soul  below. 


TO 

WHY  wouldst  thou  thoughtless  spurn  the  easing  sweet 

I  offer  to  thy  spleen-toucht,  waiting  life — 
Of  patient  yearn,  of  baffled,  heart-hushed  strife  ? 

Are  not  thy  crying  love-lusts  sharp  as  knife  ? 
Dreamy  as  music  ;  hot  as  lava  heat  ? 

Why,  when  I  beg  thee  at  thy  tiny  feet 
Dost  thou  refuse?  when  body — bosom — rife, 

Thy  am'rous  answerings  my  bold  queries  meet. 

If  thy  heart's  fancy  willeth,  why  delay? 

For  will  it  doth;  with  youth's  and  craving's  might 
Those  riot  joys,  acme  of  world's  delight 

Rest  with  thy  simple  soul's  yea — so,  ignite 
Crude,  mordant  flames  of  ardor,  that  can  stay, 

And  check  all  sweeter  blisses  by  their  sway 
Until  dreams  olden  can  a  new  dream  cite, 

Till  whims  blood-satisfied  can  fade  away. 


AFFINITIES. 

A  VIEWLESS  phantom  of  sweet  sound 
Lingers  within  my  ravished  brain  ; 
Scarce  have  I  all  its  dream-notes  found — 
Its  thread  of  melody  unwound — 

When  strange !  I  lose  the  magic  strain. 

I  muse,  while  ev'ry  fibre  rings, 

And  list  again  with  avid  ear 
To  charm  the  harmony  it  sings — 
And  tempt  upon  its  tuneful  wings — 

That  echo  of  a  godlier  sphere. 

But  ah  !  I  cannot  break  the  spell 

Although  it  haunteth  me  the  same  : 
But  I  have  learnt  to  know  it  well — 
And  think  its  meaning  I  can  tell — 
For  'tis  my  heart  that  sighs  thy  name. 


DIMINUENDO. 

DOWN  by  the  desert  beach  I  wander. 
Lone  on  the  frowning  rocks  I  ponder. 
Ired  by  the  night-winds  is  my  sorrow. 
Dead  is  my  soul  to  griefs  of  morrow. 
94 


DIMINUENDO. 

The  surging  billows  swell  and  rise, 
The  ashy  color  of  the  skies — 
Blends  with  the  chilly  foam  and  spray, 
Lit  by  the  glare  of  fading  day. 
The  ebon  clouds  of  night — 
Grin  sternly  in  their  flight ; 
The  sombre  waves  in  ire 
Are  tinged  with  shadows  dire. 
The  breakers  call  me  ! 

Their  voices  are  hoarse — 
Their  forms  appal  me  ! 
They  howl  for  my  corse. 
The  night  is  dark — 

The  winds  moan  shrill, 
The  cresset's  spark, 
Illumes  the  hill. 
The  storm's  sigh — 
Rends  the  sky : 
And  each  wave, 
Seems  a  grave : 
On  the  shore — 
Billows  pour, 
Waters  weep — 
Mortals  sleep : 
What  is  life ; 
But  a  strife  ? 
May  my  end — 
Make  amend. 
Night  falls. 
Death  calls. 
Night  thrills. 
Death  chills  ! 


95 


BRIDE    AND    DOG. 

I  LOVE  my  dog,  I  love  my  bride, 
The  love  is  not  the  same — 
A  taunting  world  may  blame — 
But  all  my  joy,  and  all  my  pride, 
Rest  with  the  dog,  when  by  my  side 
He  crouches,  mute  and  tame. 

My  faithful  hound  will  ne'er  betray, 
He  boundeth  at  my  nod ; 
I  am  his  sire,  his  God  ! 
Licking  my  feet,  content  to  stay, 
He  asks  no  favors,  care,  nor  pay, 
And  loves  me  'neath  the  rod. 

Ready  my  life-blood  to  defend, 
His  love  is  firm  and  long — 
In  spite  of  kick  or  thong, 
His  only  fear  is  to  offend  : 
And  then  with  grace  to  seek  amend 
If  I  am  right,  or  wrong. 

My  bride  can  love,  but,  can  betray, 
The  day  when  not  caressed — 
A  caprice  fills  her  breast : 
I  never  doubted,  yet  I  say — 
Let  woman's  love  be  as  it  may, 

I  love  my  dog  the  best. 
96 


BRIDE  AND  DOG. 

Oh  sapless,  silly  laws  of  man ! 
I  cannot  kill  my  bride — 
E'en  should  she  have  defied — 

The  churches'  law,  or  holiest  ban  ; 

For  pity  leers  with  visage  wan — 
And  bids  my  arm  abide. 

But  for  my  dog,  my  noble  pet 
At  any  time,  my  will — 
Gives  me  the  right  to  kill : 
Should  I  by  anger,  past  forget — 
And  strike  him  down  without  regret 
Simply  when  feeling  ill. 

Alas  !  this  social  power  is  used 
With  heedless  haste  unjust : 
The  dog  and  friend  you  trust, 
Often  is  slain,  though  not  accused — 
Whereas  the  bride  who  faith  abused, 
Lives  to  the  world's  disgust  ! 


97 


TURQUERIE. 

THE  waves  of  the  Bosphorus  dashed- 
On  Scutari,  and  splashed — 
In  the  pale  lunet's  light. 
Like  a  torrent  of  pearls, 
While  their  glistening  whirls, 
Foamy  bright — 
Flashed. 

The  night  was  pacific  and  still, 
Not  a  sound  save  the  trill — 
Of  the  bulbul  was  heard  : 
And  a  wind  of  perfumes, 
From  the  horizon's  glooms, 
Gently  stirred, 
Chill. 

Seraskier's  turret,  the  Mosque, 
Yeni  Djami,  its  Kiosque, 

And  the  dome  of  Selim — 
Towered  their  portals  and  grees 
Far  above  the  yew-trees 
Twilight  dim, 
Of  bosk. 

The  Seraglio's  beauty  Asme, 
As  the  day  ebbed  away 

With  a  wistful  look,  sad, 
98 


TURQUERIE.  99 

From  her  balcony  gazed — 
Where  the  sea- ripples  blazed 
Star-lit  mad 
Of  ray. 

Then  arose  from  the  glooms  below 
A  melody  sweet,  slow, 

The  moon  shone  in  the  face — 
Of  a  young  giaour  fair, 
With  curls  of  auburn  hair, 
Rich  of  grace 
And  glow. 

The  tone  of  his  voice  did  entreat, 

His  song  swelled  through  the  street 

Up  to  the  skies  above. 
Fond  words  of  hope  and  pride — 
Fond  words  that  fear  defied — 
Songs  of  love 
Sweet. 

But  a  struggle  is  heard — a  head 
Is  bathed  in  hot  drops,  red, 

A  horrid  crimson  flood  ! 
The  giaour  sang  to  die 
Who  now  for  him  will  sigh 
There  in  mud 
Dead! 

The  night  is  pacific  and  still, 
Not  a  sound  save  the  trill 
Of  the  bulbul  is  heard  ; 
And  a  wind  of  perfumes, 
From  the  horizon's  glooms, 
Is  stirred, 
Chill. 


SANS     CCEUR. 

OF  life  I  have  tasted  the  sweet. 

Ay  !  till  my  soul  was  sick : 
Its  bone,  and  its  marrow,  and  meat, 

Did  I  pick — 
The  pith  found  I  rot,  and  effete — 

To  lick ! 

Its  pleasures  are  sapless  of  gust 
Rank  and  bitter  as  gall : 

Brewing  hatred,  sin,  mistrust, 
One  and  all — 

While  my  heart's  curse  on  them  I  thrust 
Like  scall ! 

A  joyful  hour  has  been  my  quest, 

A  simple  quest  sincere : 
That  hour  of  joy  my  soul  caressed — 

I  thought  near : 
The  bliss  /  found  was  foul  as  pest 

And  fear ! 

In  unbelief  my  mind  is  cast, 

In  Atheism  wrought : 
Though  worlds  of  lore,  and  science  vast, 

And  of  thought — 
Have  through  my  aching  temples  passed, 

Sin-fraught. 


SANS   CCEUR. 

Of  Love  the  flower  I  now  ignore — 
Lost  in  a  phantom  world  ; 

Its  yielding  leaves  in  days  of  yore 
I  unfurled  : 

A  worm  in  every  deep  rich  core — 
Had  curled  ! 

Honors  attract  me  not,  and  gold — 
No  more  than  common  lead, 

Can  by  its  temptings  manifold, 
Turn  my  head  : 

And  warm  a  heart  twice  polar-cold 
And  dead ! 

With  breath  of  myrrh,  and  touch  of  fire, 
Kindled  by  demons  base.: 

Passions  alone  and  lusts,  inspire — 
My  wan  face  : 

And  softly  turn  my  rankling  ire 
To  grace. 

All  is  illusion,  fraud  and  sin, 

Tear,  anguish,  trust,  or  smile — 

Falsehood  without — falsehood  within — 
World  of  guile — 

Devils  pray  now,  and  angels  grin — 
With  bile! 

From  power  of  love,  to  power  of  purse, 
From  childhood's  fondest  ties  : 

And  from  the  cradle  to  the  hearse, 
Or  from  the  skies — 

Nothing  in  life  is  worth  a  curse, 
All  lies  ! 


102  SANS   CCEUR. 

No  heart  have  I,  no  faith,  no  hope, 
Sorrow,  nor  pain,  nor  care  : 

Willing  to  die  by  axe  or  rope 
Here,  or  there — 

Defying  Heaven's  horoscope 
And  prayer. 

Ambition  learnt  I  to  forget 

As  would  a  dog  a  bone : 

Remorse  my  heart  in  vain  can  fret, 
'Tis  of  stone: 

Mine  eyes  by  tears  are  never  wet 
When  'lone — 

Gods  do  I  spurn,  creeds  have  I  none, 

Religions  I  deride : 
Believe  in  naught — and  have  begun 

And  have  tried, 
The  very  sight  of  man  to  shun 
.  With  pride. 

I  smile  before  a  fresh-dug  tomb 

That  warns  me  I  must  die  : 

I  dread  not  Tophet's  mystic  gloom, 
Nor  feel  shy — 

To  sniff  of  crypts  the  stale  perfume, 
Not  I! 

The  sight  of  priest  I  scoff  and  flout 
Despite  of  hoary  years, 

His  woollen  cowl,  and  mouldy  clout, 
And  false  tears 

Will  not  protect  his  holy  snout 
From  jeers ! 


103 


Death  would  I  welcome  with  delight 
If  my  soul  on  its  wing 

Could  change  to  viper's  fangs  in  flight 
And  could  spring — 

On  earth  again — for  snakes  can  bite 
And  sting — 


"IF." 

OH  beauty  fond  and  fair  ! 
%      Of  thy  hair — 
The  comb  I  fain  would  be. 
When  o'er  thy  moulded  arms, 

And  thy  charms ; 
Falls  the  soft  silken  sea. 

Why  am  I  not  the  veil — 

Light  and  frail, 
Masking  thy  eyes'  mild  ray  ? 
Or  perfumed  by  the  sip 

Of  thy  lip— 
The  flower  thou  throw'st  away? 

Why  am  I  not  the  dove, 

Cooing  love — 
Fondled  upon  thy  breast  ? 

Or  else  the  breezelet  fanned — 

By  thy  hand, 
To  cool  thy  ardent  zest  ? 


104 


LIFE. 

If  I  were  but  thy  ring, 

I  would  cling — 
Fast  to  thy  finger  white  : 
And  I  would  softly  press, 

And  caress — 
The  dimpled  flesh  each  night. 

How  I  would  love  to  be, 

Small  and  wee — 
Thy  gaiter,  ribbon-tied ! 

Or  thy  sheets,  white  and  sleek 

— As  thy  cheek  : 
Which  thy  fair  bosom  hide. 

Or  better  still  I  deem — 

The  sweet  dream, 
That  lifts  thy  pulsing  spheres, 
For  here  my  flame  could  burn 

And  could  learn 
My  heart's  vague  hopes  and  fears. 


LIFE. 

'Tis  for  some  a  grand  poem  of  pleasure, 
'Tis  for  poets  a  poem  of  pain  ; 

And  for  others  a  scintillant  treasure, 
A  blessing  a  curse  or  a  bane  : 

'Tis  for  many  a  ramble  and  leisure, 
And  for  some  'tis  a  thing  of  disdain. 


LIFE. 

There  is  ever  the  failure  of  trying, 

And  the  swarms  of  vague  manifold  fears; 

There's  the  farce  of  our  birth  and  our  dying, 
The  burlesque  of  our  wretched  careers. 

There  is  little  of  value  save  sighing, 

There  is  nothing  of  worth  but  our  tears ! 

There  are  false  joys,  and  riches,  ambition, 

There  is  Love,  there  is  Fame,  there  is  Art, 
Ere  we  grapple  them,  comes  inanition, 

Death's  shadows  can  everything  part- 
All  our  life-aims  are  aims  of  perdition, 
And  with  hopes  that  are  hopeless  we  start. 

Wise  is  he  who  a  man  and  a  chooser 

Spurns  Life's  book  and  its  pages  of  days, 

Wise  is  he  who  is  no  man's  accuser, 

Who  laughs  not,  nor  sings  not,  nor  prays, 

Wise  is  he  who  sees  all  like  a  muser 

Through  vague  tenebrous  shadows  of  greys. 

Be  content  and  live  on  nothing  claiming, 
Shun  the  mass  and  their  impotent  creeds, 

See  with  eye  neither  lauding  nor  blaming. 
Acts  of  crime,  or  magnificent  deeds, 

Neither  asking,  nor  hoping,  nor  aiming, 
For  joys  that  are  barren  of  seeds. 

If  we  lived  through  long  epochs  and  ages, 
If  we  saw  but  a  century  of  peace, 

Had  we  time  to  calm  murmurs  and  rages, 
Had  we  time  to  make  wickedness  cease, 

We  might  barter  our  faith  to  the  sages, 
We  mijiht  force  evil  thoughts  to  decrease. 


106  LIFE. 

But  we  live  but  an  hour  and  we  learn  not 
If  that  hour  will  be  short  or  be  long  ; 

Shall  we  rush  on  ahead,  shall  we  turn  not, 
Shall  our  voice  be  a  sigh  or  a  song  ? 

Shall  we  love  not,  nor  hate  not,  nor  spurn  not 
Who  can  guide  to  the  right  from  the  wrong? 

Can  we  live  without  error  or  blunder, 
Can  we  know  when  to  come  and  to  go  ? 

Why  love,  when  Death's  sickle  asunder 
Clea^veth  down  ev'ry  love  with  a  blow? 

If  the  spring  turns  to  winter  why  wonder, 
Or  if  roses  give  way  to  the  snow  ? 

Every  sunset  in  colorful  glory, 
Must  bow  to  the  menacing  night, 

Every  moon  in  its  opal  sheen,  hoary, 
Is  chased  by  the  dawn's  kiss  of  white, 

From  chaos  there  sprang  but  one  story — 
Our  story  of  ruin  and  blight ! 

Can  we  aught  of  the  infinite  borrow, 

Can  we  plunge  in  the  secrets  of  glooms? 

Can  we  unveil  the  formless  to-morrow, 
Can  we  sniff  at  the  future's  perfumes  ? 

Can  we  say  that  in  joy  or  in  sorrow 

We  will  reach  the  pale  portals  of  tombs  ? 

Yet  like  lost  lambs,  wolf-scented,  we  tremble; 

We  know  not,  yet  would  know  and  groan ; 
We  worship  our  gods  and  assemble — 

In  temples  of  marble  and  stone ; 
We  pray,  hope,  fear,  lie,  and  dissemble, 

Yet  we  err  through  Life's  vortex  alone  ! 


GLAMOUR.  107 

So  is  wise  he  who  nothing  remembers, 
Who  can  banish,  forget,  and  ignore: 

Who  can  crush  out  the  slow-burning  embers — 
Of  fire-thoughts  that  burned  well  in  yore, 

Who  alike  blends  the  Mays  with  Decembers, 
Who  cares  naught  of  the  past  to  restore. 

Wrise  is  he  who  regrets  not  his  gladness, 
His  blisses  of  childhood  now  dead : 

Wise  is  he  who  can  laugh  at  his  madness — 

When  youth's  ardor  ruled  heart  and  ruled  head ; 

Wise  is  he  who  finds  pleasure  in  sadness, 
In  the  memories  of  tears  that  were  shed. 


GLAMOUR. 

A  BLOND  pale  moonbeam  falls 
Athwart  a  window's  sill : 
Soft  shimmering  on  the  still- 
White  gloss  of,  marble  walls.  . 


Frail  atoms  of  white  light 
Sing  in  an  argent  glow — 
White  songs  of  sheen  and  snow, 

White  melodies, — dream  white.  .  . 


Of  richest  agate  wrought, 
That  palace  window  holds — 
A  gem  of  silks  and  golds, 

Japan's  fair  Empress, — fraught— 


io8  GLAMOUR. 

With  whims  of  flowers  and  birds, 
Companions  of  her  home; 
Sweeter  heart-fancies  roam — 

So  vague  they  have  no  words.  .  .  . 

Upon  great  grees  of  gold, 
On  pillars  gemmed  of  crest, 
On  molten  silver,  prest — 

In  stairways,  jasper-cold. 

On  fountains,  pearls  of  work, 
Chiselled  with  arabesque, 
Where  images  grotesque 

'Neath  strange  devices  lurk. 

On  Kiosks  whence  breezes  blow 
Rich  redolent  perfumes, 
Luxurious  in  the  glooms 

Of  porticoes  below — 

The  Empress  jewel -clad 

Gazes  :  and  lowly  sighs 

She  turns  two  lustrous  eyes 

Up  to  the  white  moon  sad — 

For  hours  she  courts  its  glare, 
Red  lips  ope — half  apart, 
Soft  beats  a  moon-thrilled  heart- 
Why  does  she  linger  there  ? 

Because  the  moon's  bright  beams 
Fall  on  the  window's  sill, 
And  in  the  dark  night,  still, 

Tell  their  white  wondrous  dreams. 


GODS    OF    FEAR. 


No  dainty  cooings  will  I  use 

Thy  love  to  win. 
Thy  virgin  faith  will  ne'er  abuse, 
And  no  glib  phrases  can  accuse — 

A  lie  held  in. 

Thy  Love  shall  sprout  from  flowers  of  Fear 
A  Love  all  Passion  and  all  Fear 
Pricking  thy  skin — 

I'll  lead  thee  when  the  tempests  howl 

Within  the  glade  : 
To  shudder  at  the  hoot  of  owl, 
And  laugh  to  see  thee  'neath  its  scowl — 

Shrink  sore  afraid. 

When  livid  glares  of  lightning  gleam, 
When  winds  and  waves  and  ravens  scream 
Through  shadeless  shade — 

I'll  lead  thee  in  the  forests  deep 

Each  ghoulish  night : 
The  fern  a  lullaby  will  keep 
While  on  an  orchal-mound  wilt  sleep, 

A  sleep  of  fright — 

Moon-ravished,  will  thy  hot  veins  freeze 
Thy  sweat  will  mix  with  dew  of  trees 
The  Earth's  tears,  white.  .  .  . 

10*  109 


no  GODS   OF  PEAK. 

By  horror  thou  wilt  love  me,  when 

Lost  in  some  swamp  : 
We  wallow  through  the  sizy  fen, 
Fleeing  the  poisoned  shade  of  glen, 

As  we  ramp — 

Mid  spraints  and  vipers,  fungus-bred, 
And  putrid  mushrooms,  ochre-red 
Stenchful  and  damp —  ! 

Down  in  dank  crypts  where  lizards  reign 

Where  coffins  rest : 
I'll  desecrate  the  bodies,  slain — 
By  leprosy,  or  ulcerous  pain, 

And  purple  pest. 

To  show  thee  how  the  vermine  crawl 
And  how  stale  carrion  can  appal 
Thy  reaching  breast. 

In  dungeons  dark  as  hearts  that  hate, 

Thy  hand  in  mine  : 
I'll  lead  thee  to  behold  the  fate 
Of  marcid  sufferers,  who  wait — 

Wan -faced,  and  pine, 
For  Death  or  Light  with  maniac  trust, 
As  o'er  foul  swill,  <5r  fouler  crust 

They  pain-drunk,  whine  ! 

Then,  shouldst  thou  spurn  my  offers,  quake 

And  rend  thy  hair  ! 

The  "Gods  of  Fear"  thy  life  will  make — 
A  hell  of  hells,  asleep,  awake, 
Here,  yon,  or  there — 
While  flameful  eyes,  with  blood  for  lights 
Will  show  thee  other  direr  sights 
To  rock  despair  ! 


FABLE. 

A  ROSE-BUSH  in  a  garden  grew, 

On  which  a  modest  bud  had  spread 
Its  virgin  fragrance,  while  the  dew 

In  drops  of  pearl  had  kissed  the  red — 
Soft  mantling  blush  of  petals  new 

And  wond'ring,  while  the  bud  was  fed 
By  amorous  sunbeams,  mild  of  hue, 

And  cautious,  lest  the  rose  should  dread 
Too  fulvid  glares  from  skies  too  blue. 

A  grovelling  worm  beneath  had  seen 

The  rose,  and  hated  it  for  all — 
Its  gentle  charm,  though  odors  keen 

And  subtle,  would  arise  and  fall 
To  perfume  all  the  worm's  sad  spleen  : 

Ungratefully  this  worm  did  crawl 
Up  to  the  tender  bud,  between — 

Its  creamy  leaflets,  leaving  gall, 
To  blight  its  helplessness  serene. 

Venomed  and  soiled  by  kissings  tart, 

The  floweret  faded  'neath  its  woes : 
No  dew  could  heal  the  slayer's  smart, 

No  thorn  the  passage  could  oppose. 
Its  chalice  eaten  part  and  part, 

It  perished,  and  its  dying  throes 
Forced  not  the  abject  worm  to  start — 

Thou  wert  that  beauteous  virgin  rose, 
I  was  the  worm  that  gnawed  thy  heart  ! 


PERLINE. 

ON  the  sun-kisst  sands, 
On  the  golden  sands, 

Where  the  argent  sea-foams  play. 
In  the  fertile  lands, 
In  the  happy  lands, 

Of  the  far  and  fair  Cathay : 

I  wooed  a  water-Fay — 

On  the  willing  waves, 
On  the  magic  waves, 
She  allured  my  heart  away — 
In  the  Ocean's  caves, 
In  the  shell-built  caves, 
I  lived  and  I  loved  a  day : 
My  beauteous  water-Fay — 

Where  the  billows  rose, 
Where  the  blue  tides  rose, 

I  was  cradled  by  her  lay — 
Where  the  alga  grows, 
Where  the  sea-plant  grows, 

Where  the  scaly  mermaids  play — 

I  kissed  my  water-Fay. 

As  a  moonbeam  white, 
As  a  starbeam  white, 
Was  her  eye  of  iris  ray — 
112 


PER  LINE.  113 

As  a  meteor  bright, 

As  a  comet  bright, 
Was  her  smile  of  pearl  and  spray : 
Entreating  me  to  stay — 

She  sighed  when  I  said, — 

She  swooned  when  I  said, — 
That  no  more  could  I  delay ; 

That  they  thought  me  dead, — 

That  they  mourned  me  dead, — 
In  the  far  and  fair  Cathay  : 
And  I  left  my  water-Fay — 

She  wept  in  my  hands, 

She  sobbed  in  my  hands, 
When  I  sadly  swam  away — 

On  the  golden  sands, 

On  the  sun-kisst  sands, 
Two  pearls  in  my  wet  palms  lay : 
The  tears  of  my  water-Fay  ! 


TO    MY  FRIEND    EDGAR   FAWCETT, 

ON   HIS   TWENTY-SIXTH   BIRTHDAY. 

FROM  the  ruin  and  rust  of  ages, 

From  the  chaos  of  formless  spheres  : 
From  all  Pains  that  Pain  assuages, 
From  all  pangs  of  endless  years  : 
To  our  world  of  sins  and  rages, 
Thou  hast  come  to  stay  our  fears. 

Giant — defiant. 
Oh  Poet  of  Tears ! 

And  those  tears  are  strong  and  splendid, 
As  the  thoughts  that  make  them  flow  ; 
For  their  riot  flood  is  blended, 

With  a  smile  that  lurks  below: 
And  the  tears  have  scarcely  ended — 
When  we  see  the  smile's  deep  glow. 

Beautiful ;  dutiful : 
Oh  Poet  of  Woe  ! 

Thy  verse  is  not  all  of  gladness 
Of  this  world  so  full  of  stain  : 
It  is  lit  by  a  gleam  of  madness — 

A  vague  flicker  of  proud  disdain  : 
And  thy  lays  have  a  tinge  of  sadness ; 
Like  blue  skies  before  a  rain. 

Frigid  :  rigid. 
Oh  Poet  of  Pain  ! 
114 


TO   MY  FRIEND   EDGAR  FAWCETT.         IT5 

Are  thy  pains  more  sweet  than  thy  pleasures? 

Is  thy  sting  or  thy  balm  the  most  cold  ? 
Oh  grand  soul-rousing  genius  that  measures 

All  the  glories  of  dream-thoughts  untold — 
To  lavish  thy  mind's  gems  and  treasures, 
On  a  world  that  is  callous  and  old ! 

Hateful,  ungrateful : 
Oh  Poet  of  Gold  ! 

With  the  pearl  and  the  silk  of  thy  dreaming, 

Thou  hast  woven  a  magical  thread 
Of  soft  musical  tissues  o'erteeming — 

With  the  mem'ries  of  better  things  fled: 
While  the  palette  of  language  is  gleaming 
And  bathes  them  with  colors  that  wed. 

Yellow — mellow — 
Oh  Poet  of  Red  ! 

Through  new  by-roads  of  thought  thou  hast  taken 

Our  sense  and  our  soul  by  the  rare — 
Subtle  sweetness  of  perfumes,  which  shaken 
Have  weighted  with  fragrance  the  care — 
Of  our  rapture,  and  left  us  forsaken 
All  the  strength  of  thy  fancies  to  bear. 

Specious  :  precious : 
Oh  Poet  of  Prayer  ! 

For  at  times  thy  clear  voice  is  endearing, 

Faith-stirring,  pure,  holy,  yet  coy : 
Dark  cark  and  its  spleen-spirits  cheering, 

With  those  exquisite  Hope-words  that  buoy 
Till  a  soul  is  refreshed  beyond  fearing, 
With  a  freshness  no  gloom  can  destroy. 

Royal :   loyal : 
Oh  Poet  of  Joy  ! 


it6  VICENZA. 

May  the  worlds  as  they  muse  and  they  ponder, 

May  the  men  and  the  minds  thereof, 
Praise  and  cherish,  and  learn  to  love  fonder 

The  proud  Eagles  of  Art  above, 
That  from  Heaven  are  sent  to  wander 

With  beaks  of  iron,  and  large  hearts  of  dove. 

Grandly — blandly  : 
Oh  Poet  of  Love  ! 
MAY  26,  1873. 


VICENZA. 

IN  Vicenza  the  dark, 

Not  a  light — save  the  spark 

Of  a  torch. 

With  a  red  sullen  flame, 
O'er  the  Duke's  crested  name 

On  his  porch. 

Through  the  town  not  a  sound, 
Not  a  soul  can  be  found, 

All  is  still. 

With  a  low  gurgling  sigh, 
The  canal  rushes  by — 

Swift  and  chill. 

The  proud  palaces,  dim — 
In  the  twilight,  stand  grim 
In  their  stone: 


WHICH? 

While  the  Duomo's  grave  bell 
Droneth  out  a  deep  knell 
Monotone. 

The  tired  wanderer  may  pace 
The  sad  streets,  not  a  face 

To  befriend : 

And  it  seems,  that  the  gloom, 
Like  the  life  beyond  tomb, 

Has  no  end. 

Old  Vicenza  is  dead, 
Its  past  glories  have  fled, 

And  they  seem — 
Like  the  memories  faint, 
Which  no  mind  can  paint 

Of  a  dream  ! 


117 


WHICH? 

THERE  is  one  that  I  could  marry — 

Most  beautiful  to  behold  : 
She  must  wonder  why  I  tarry, 

But  my  heart  for  her  is  cold — 
For  she  loves  gold. 

There  is  one  with  cheeks  like  peaches- 
With  large  lustrous  eyes  alert : 

Her  hair  to  her  ankle  reaches, 

But  her  charms  leave  me  unhurt — 
She  loves  to  flirt. 


CARRIOK. 

There  is  one  of  lineage  olden — 
With  a  crested,  princely  name  : 

Her  ringlets  are  ambry  golden, 
But  my  heart  she  cannot  claim- 
For  she  loves  fame. 

There  is  one  with  raven  tresses — 
With  a  hot  and  Spanish  skin  : 

She  is  lavish  of  caresses, 

But  her  heart  I  spurn  to  win — 
For  she  loves  sin. 

There's  another  beauty,  slender — 
And  as  supple  as  a  glove  : 

But  for  her  my  heart  is  tender, 
And  as  constant  as  a  dove — 
For  she  loves  Love. 


CARRION. 

FLEEING  the  city's  noisy  sound, 
I  wandered  once  oppressed  by  care 

Into  the  silent  woods ;  and  found 
A  naked  corpse  left  rotting  there  ! 

Blind  with  disgust,  yet  moved  by  awe, 
I  trembling  neared  the  fetid  mass ; 

Which  purple-tinged,  and  sick'ning  raw- 
Exhaled  stale  wafts  of  tainted  gas. 


CARRION. 


119 


The  eyes  by  ravenous  birds  were  plucked 
Out  of  their  putrid  sockets — while 

Eftlets  and  lizards  drained  and  sucked, 
Their  palling  food  of  festered  bile — 

The  rot-gnawed  flesh  off  either  cheek 
Hung  loose ;  and  venomed  by  its  stench 

The  air,  which  echoed  with  the  shriek 
Of  vultures  greedy  thirst  to  quench. 

A  broiling  sun  with  flamant  rays, 

Poured  down  its  fulgor  through  the  glade 

And  by  the  fervor  of  its  blaze — 
Huge  pustules  on  the  carrion  made  ! 

A  grizzled  toad  with  clammy  tread 

O'ergorged  with  rank  and  viscous  blood, 

Lolled  sleepily  upon  his  head 
Half  hidden  in  a  pool  of  mud — 

Wire  worms  and  adders  curled  and  crawled 
Round  in  his  belly's  vapid  must, 

In  which  I  spied  with  gaze  appalled, 
A  dirk  begrimed  with  muck  and  rust. 

His  marcid  lips  ejected  grume, 

While  carious  tumors  lapped  his  throat : 
And  stunk  of  gall,  and  bubbling  spume, 

The  rancid  food  of  stunted  stoat.-— 

A  jaw  wide-stretched  as  if  in  keck, 

Gaped  to  my  view  each  cankered  gum — 

While  o'er  his  limous  chin  and  neck, 
Oozed  fecal  drops  of  curdy  scum  ! 


120  CARRION. 

A  horrid  sight,  a  loathsome  death, 
And  yet  no  nausea  felt  I  then — 

No  deadly  vapors  choked  my  breath  : 
No  reeking  miasms  dimmed  my  ken. 

Till  night  had  draped  my  sight  in  gloom 
On  hands  and  knees  the  soil  I  tore : 

To  give  the  mildewed  corpse  a  tomb, 
And  hide  such  filth  forevermore. 

Veiled  in  the  mysteries  of  thought, 
Before  the  grave  I  pondering  stood  : 

My  task  was  o'er — my  home  I  sought, 
And  calm  in  mind  I  left  the  wood. — 


Thou  !  trust  and  treasure  of  my  heart, 
Thou  !  beauteous  maiden  I  adore ; 

At  my  strange  question  do  not  start — 
For  a  strange  answer  I  implore. 

Death,  darling  mine,  is  unforeseen  ; 

Tell  me,  if  dead,  wouldst  thou  embrace 
My  livid  carcass  of  gangrene  ? 

My  viscid  lips?  my  rotting  face? 

Wouldst  thou  with  grief  my  cold  hand  press 
When  decomposing  'neath  my  shroud? 

Wouldst  thou  thine  agony  express 
Before  a  vast  and  heartless  crowd  ? 


LINES    TO  ABSINTHE.  J2i 

If  thou  wouldst  such  a  love-proof  give, 
Thou  noblest  of  all  brides  wouldst  be ; 

For  such  a  love,  'tis  Love  to  live — 
And  equal  love  I'd  give  to  thee  ! 


LINES    TO    ABSINTHE. 

WITH  wincing  sob,  and  thrilling  yell, 
Fiends  have  shed  tears,  to  form  thy  spell 

Which  fascinates  my  soul. 
Which  makes  me  toll  my  own  death- knell, 
Wafts  up  the  sin,  I  cannot  quell — 
And  lures  me  on  the  road  to  hell — 

With  torment  as  a  goal ! 

Unnerved  I  kneel  at  thy  command, 
How  can  I  e'er  thy  power  withstand  ? 

When,  by  its  cheering  might — 
Vistas  of  glory  bright  and  grand, 
Glimpses  of  bliss  on  Eden's  strand — 
Swifter  than  by  a  wizard's  wand — 

Loom  'fore  my  dazzled  sight ! 

How  of  thy  sweets  can  I  e'er  tire, 
Thy  magic  sway  cease  to  admire — 

When  thy  pearl  drops  of  green  : 
Can  by  their  odor  calm  my  ire, 
The  loftiest,  noblest  thoughts  inspire — 
While  for  the  world's  good,  I  aspire, 

In  dreamy  realms  unseen, 
n* 


122  LINES    TO  ABSINTHE. 

For,  quaffing  from  thy  nectar  source, 
Spurred  by  the  suaveness  of  thy  force 

Of  happiness  I  dream. 
My  mind  floats  on  in  placid  course, 
I  know  no  sting,  I  feel  no  loss — 
Believe  in  naught — scoff  at  remorse — 

Seek  only  the  supreme. 


If  weary,  from  my  cark-drugged  brain — 
Thy  potency  will  banish  pain, 

And  fill  my  cup  of  joy. 
Ignore  I  fear — and  feel  no  strain, 
Fierce  ecstasies  that  never  wane 
In  thy  dear  sweets  I  seek  again 

All  flitting  hopes  to  buoy. 

And  when  in  fancies  born  of  air 
Ungrateful  liquid,  free  from  care — 

I  sip  thy  venom  dire, 
Thou  sow'st  the  seed  of  death  to  share 
Foul  Satan's  joy,  when  young  and  fair — 
Fall  reckless  in  thy  tempting  snare — 

Oh  !  green  and  frozen  fire  ! 

Outcast  and  scourge,  my  tongue  is  tame, 
I  have  no  strength  to  say  I  blame — 

Thy  fatal  sway  o'er  me. 
Thy  griffin  claws  my  soul  will  claim, 
Thy  savor  brings  a  life  of  shame, 
To  end  alas  in  one  of  flame 

Torment  and  agony. 


LANDSCAPE. 

But  if  in  rags  my  limbs  are  clad, 
And  if  my  face  is  wan  and  sad, 

Absinthe,  I  love  thee  still ! 
My  heart  has  not  alvvay  been  bad, 
And  though  the  keen  world  call  me  mad- 
Naught  have  I  had,  to  make  me  glad, 

Save  thy  delirious  thrill ! 

Need  I  e'er  food  ?  by  thee  am  fed, 
Need  I  a  love  ?  'tis  thee  I  wed, 

My  pale  and  glaucous  bride  ; 
And  though  my  nerves  be  dull  as  lead 
In  my  clenched  hand,  alive  or  dead — • 
I  swear  that  on  my  dying  bed, 

I'll  have  thee  by  my  side. 


123 


LANDSCAPE. 

A  MOUNTAIN  chain — each  snow-bathed  peak 
Craggy  and  shapeful,  drinks  the  mist. 

Below  the  cloud-mark,  eagles  seek 
Their  eyries  hy  the  sleet-winds  kisst. 

Mighty  Titanic  towers  of  rock, 

Huge  Lylacqs  raised  by  giant  hands — 

To  climb  to  heaven,  and  to  mock 
The  power  of  God  on  holy  strands — 


124 


LANDSCAPE. 


Lay  crushed  and  sundered,  overturned, 
Chaos  of  granite,  earth  and  stone : 

Vast  grave  preadamite,  well  earned 
For  those  who  shaped  it  for  a  throne. 

And  when  Night,  hushful,  inks  the  chain- 
With  darkness,  then  the  torrents'  roar 

Soundeth  like  giant  lungs  in  pain 
Cursing  their  God  for  sins  of  yore. 

The  souls  and  spirits  of  a  race 
Damned  for  all  ages  suffer  there, 

And  caged  in  stone,  bereft  of  grace, 
Await  their  judgment  with  despair. 

SIERRA  NEVADA,  December,  1872. 


LANDSCAPE. 

A  SETTING  sun  begilds  the  sand, 

The  pink-tipped  wavelets  fall  and  rise, 

Murmurless,  as  the  rays  expand — 

Their  gold-streaked  splendor  through  the  skies. 

A  beach  of  shells  and  oolites  rare, 
Receives  the  Ocean's  cool  embrace  : 

Above,  the  ospray  cleaves  the  air, 
Soaring  with  curves  of  febrile  grace. 


LANDSCAPE. 

No  cot,  no  sward,  no  trace  of  man 
No  passing  sail  to  intervene: 

Blue  billows  far  as  eye  can  scan, 
Red  heavens  floating  o'er  the  scene. 


125 


LANDSCAPE. 

IN  the  wood  all  is  still, 
Save  the  shrill — 
Dismal  caw  of  the  crow. 
Not  a  twiglet  that  stirs, 

And  tire  firs — 
Stand  out  gaunt  tipped  with  snow. 

On  the  road  far  adown, 

Toward  the  town — 

Not  a  light,  not  a  sound  ; 

White  on  white,  fall  the  flakes 
On  the  lakes — 

There  is  rime  on  the  ground. 

Twilight  fadeth  away 

Ashy  gray — 

The  black  streaks  of  Night  loom — 
Their  dark  shadows  of  void, 

And  cloud-buoyed — 
Cover  all  with  their  gloom. 


126  LANDSCAPE. 

Dreaded  winter  appears 
Robed  im  fears : 

With  its  frost  and  its  chill — 
While  the  earth  seems  to  moan 
Left  alone — 

With  its  rigorous  will. 

Shunned  by  all,  in  despair, 
Should  I  care — 

If  the  autumn  has  fled  ? 
For  my  life  is  as  blank 
And  as  dank — 

As  the  sky  overhead. 


LANDSCAPE. 

SUN-REDDENED,  brown,  a  sea  of  sand 

'Neath  cloudless  skies'  white  floating  heat, 

Rolls  its  grain-waves  through  Soudan's  land, 
O'er  desert  miles  no  eye  can  mete. 

Mountains  of  dust  arise  and  loom — 
Their  scorching  shadows  on  the  waste  : 

To  brave  the  hell-touch  of  simoum 
A  caravan  prepares  in  haste  .   .   . 

The  groaning  camels,  laden,  kneel. 

The  timorous  Bedouins  veil  their  eyeis  .   . 
Torrents  of  sand  from  heaven  reel — 

And  pour  their  heat  from  hotter  skies. 


LANDSCAPE. 

Near  by,  a  source,  a  palmy  mound, 
Oasis  of  delight  is  viewed  : 

Cool  bubbling  waters  kiss  the  ground, 
Tall  date-trees  offer  shade  and  food. 


But  all  around  is  dry  and  sere 

As  hearts  from  whence  all  love  has  flown  : 
The  heart's  oasis  still  sincere 

Striveth  to  cheer  its  life  and  own  : 
The  sand-whirl  passes — 'tis  too  late — 

The  martyr-Bedouins  die  in  pain  : 
E'en  tottering  towards  salvation's  gate, 

A  love-burnt  heart  ne'er  smiles  again. 


127 


LANDSCAPE. 

A  SKY  of  flame ;  the  Ganges  scorched — 
Sluggish  and  rippleless  lolls  by : 

Marvels  of  stone,  pillared  and  porched, 
Thrust  their  pied  cupolas  on  high. 

Almees  of  eye  k'hol-tinted,  dance — 
A  mantling  whirl  beneath  a  palm, 

Where  cloyed  inert  in  haschisch  trance 
A  bronze-skinned  rajah  tempteth  calm. 


I28  SOUVENIRS. 

With  garb  striated,  black  as  ink, 
Two  Delhi  virgins  fan  with  zest, 

The  musing  prince,  whose  senses  sink — 
In  promised  dreams  of  Zendavest. 

The  Kussir's  melody,  rich,  deep 
Filleth  with  song  the  arid  air : 

Cradled  by  rocking  rhythms,  sleep — 
In  hamac  frail  comes  unaware. 

The  kaat  and  sherbet  palate-soft, 

Tip  his  hot  tongue  with  cool  surprise, 

An  ombrel  shades,  while  far  aloft 
The  attar-gulls'  sharp  perfumes  rise. 

The  subtle  fragrance  charms  the  birds — 
Gold-feathered,  as  they  bless  its  sweet ; 

And  warble  unknown  graceful  words 

Rhyming  with  Sua,  with  Scent,  with  Heat. 


SOUVENIRS. 

THE  night  in  June. 
The  silv'ry  moon. 
The  linnet's  cry. 
The  cobalt  sky : 
The  night  when  first  we  met 
Can  you  forget? 


SOUVENIRS. 

The  forest  green. 
The  liquid  sheen. 
The  dripping  oars. 
The  sudden  pause — 
That  silent  sweet  duet, 
Can  you  forget  ? 

The  brilliant  ball. 
The  crowded  hall. 
The  blaze  of  light. 
The  kiss  that  night. 
The  night  you  called  me  pet. 
Can  you  forget  ? 

The  jingling  bells. 
The  snow-clad  dells. 
The  speeding  sledge. 
The  solemn  pledge. 
The  pledge  you  made  coquette. 
Can  you  forget  ? 

The  serenade. 
The  leafy  glade. 
The  pouring  rain. 
The  hurricane. 
The  night  my  lips  were  wet. 
Can  you  forget  ? 

The  lonely  park. 
The  shadows  dark. 
The  first  caress. 
The  silken  tress. 
This,  ravishing  brunette, 
Can  you  forget? 


129 


130 


TO  .  : . 

The  vow  of  love. 
The  glance  above. 
The  ardent  thrill— 
The  power  of  will — 
That  hour  brought  no  regret. 
Can  you  forget? 

The  dream  of  bliss. 
The  parting  kiss. 
The  days  glide  fast. 
The  dream  is  past. 
Beauty  with  eyes  of  jet, 
You  can  forget ! 


TO   ... 

SLEEP  and  dream,  lissome  maid,  while  in  rapture 

I  caress  thy  grand  poem  of  flesh  ; 

While  I  toy  with  each  rich  purple  mesh 
Of  gnarled  tresses  :  when  striving  to  capture 

All  the  hot  biting  odors  from  lips — 

Half  apart  with  the  sweetness  that  slips 
From  thy  dimpled  white  smilings,  sleep-fresh. 

'Tis  the  perfect  round  curve  of  thy  shoulder, 
And  thy  sleek  supple  flanks  I  admire. 
For  thy  moonish-white  skin  doth  inspire 

My  hot,  vexed,  restless  gaze  to  pierce  bolder; 
For  thou  sleepest,  and  red  is  thy  dream 
With  the  naphtha  of  lust,  and  its  gleam 

From  the  snows  of  thy  breast  hurls  its  fire. 


TO 


Nay,  awake  not,  nor  turn,  till  I  press  thee, 
For  thy  sleep  is  consoling  as  Night. 
And  thy  calm  dreams  shall  taste  the  fire-might 

Of  Love's  blendings,  as  mad,  I  caress  thee, 
And  thy  white  form  with  red  kisses  mark — 
Till  thine  eyes  wake  from  lethargies  dark — 

To  the  glamours  and  splendors  of  light. 


Then  from  dream-bliss  to  Life-bliss  arisen, 
Thine  hot  tears,  my  hot  tears  will  dispute, 
Then  thy  low  pant  sounds  softer  than  lute 

To  my  ear;  and  thy  bare  arms  imprison — 
A  no  longer  wild  phantom  of  sighs, 
For  thou  closest  thy  large  blurred  eyes, 

And  liest  wond'ring,  nude,  pallid,  and  mute  ! 

Let  my  kisses  then  follow  incessant, 

O'er  thy  lips,  o'er  thy  soft  cheek  of  fur: 
Let  them  moisten,  as  sultry  they  err 

The  black  shade  of  thy  silken  brows'  crescent- 
While  I  breathe  the  mysterious  air, 
From  thy  chaos  of  undulate  hair, 

Vague  and  dreamy  as  memories  of  myrrh. 


BLUE. 

AN  azure  smile  the  Heavens  wear, 
A  broad  grand  smile,  intensely  blue. 

The  turquoise  tint  has  dyed  the  air — 
The  breeze  seems  colored  by  its  hue  . 

Cerulean  blue,  the  sea  below — 
Lies  like  the  mirror  of  the  sky  : 

Its  blue  is  of  a  richer  glow, 

Its  changings  wondrous  to  the  eye. 

The  maid  I  love  hath  orbs  of  blue, 
A  melting  blue,  faith-lit  by  me  : 

Her  steadfast  sapphire  glancings,  true — 
Have  gulfs  of  cobalt  harmony. 

Once  sailed  we  o'er  the  blue  blue  seas, 
Scudding  beneath  far  bluer  skies  : 

And  worlds  of  Blue,  on  bended  knees, 
I  found  within  her  loving  eyes. 


132 


TOURS. 

WITH  lambent  flow — 

The  Sun  aglow 

Caresses,  gair,  with  waves  of  light, 
A  church's  painted  windows,  white — 

With  rime  and  snow. 

Glass-carved,  quaint — 

Each  haloed  saint 

With  wrinkled  trailing  mantle  blue, 
Blends  soft  with  tints  of  antique  hue 

Holily  faint. 

Through  fissured  spire, 

The  sunbeam's  gyre, 
Weaveth  a  magic  web  of  rays — 
Iris,  gold-gleaming  as  it  plays — 

On  marbled  choir — 

Long,  dark,  severe, 

The  naves  appear 
In  pious  patriarchal  gloom  :    . 
Circled  by  columned  walls,  that  loom 

Their  shades  austere. 

The  Sun's  proud  glare 

To  lume  a  prayer 

Ne'er  penetrates  the  tombs  of  stone  : 
Far  chillier  when  the  organ's  moan — 

Rendeth  the  air. 

12*  133 


134  TOURS. 

But  once  each  day 

A  wand'ring  ray 

Lustres  the  chapel's  sculptured  domes, 
Over  the  pillared  transept  roams, 

Then  fades  away. 


-Its  warmth  is  chilled, 

Its  calor  stilled, 

The  stern  cold  grandeur  of  the  mass — 
Seems  to  resent  its  right  to  pass, 

And  shuns  it,  thrilled — 


By  grief  and  tear, 

My  heart — joy-sere 
Slumbers  in  darkness  like  that  aisle, 
For  no  fair  sunbeam  can  beguile, 

Or  reach  to  cheer  ! 


Care-lost,  in  dreams — 

It  seeth  streams 

Of  splendent  sunlight  on  the  walls : 
Cruelly  deaf  to  anguished  calls 

For  paltry  beams. 

The  days  begun, 

Die  one  by  one 

While  sad  that  heart  in  silence  weeps, 
As  on  and  on  the  Life-tide  creeps 

Bringing  no  sun. 


BALLAD. 


'35 


But  once  each  day 

A  pitying  ray, 

Cheers  the  poor  heart  with  sorrow  fraught, 
Warms  it  awhile  with  kindly  thought, 

Then  fades  away  .... 
TOURS,  October,  1872. 


BALLAD. 

IF  the  sky  be  pure, 

Take  care  ! 
If  the  road  seem  sure, 

Beware ! 
Let  no  maid  allure 

Though  fair. 

Of  the  hand  of  king, 

Take  care  ! 
If  the  thrushes  sing, 

Beware ! 
False  is  every  thing 

And  e'er  .  .   . 

If  a  friend  appears, 

Take  care ! 
Of  a  woman's  tears, 

Beware  ! 
If  an  old  man  jeers, 

Despair  ! 


136  BALLAD. 

Of  the  shade  of  priest, 
Take  care  ! 

Of  the  hoof  of  beast, 
Beware ! 

And  an  offered  feast 
Ne'er  share. 

Of  varlets  and  thieves, 

Take  care ! 
Of  venom  in  leaves, 

Beware! 
Of  a  breast  that  heaves 

Half  bare  .... 

If  an  eye  be  blue, 

Take  care ! 
If 'tis  black  of  hue, 

Beware  ! 
No  color  is  true 

Of  glare. 

Of  a  damsel's  kiss, 

Take  care  ! 
Of  the  serpent's  hiss — 

Beware  ! 
If  thou  seekest  bliss, 

'Tis  rare. 

So  of  stars  and  sun, 

Take  care  ! 
If  the  field  is  won, 

Beware ! 
And  all  mortals  shun 

As  snare. 


ESMERALDA. 

IN  dreams  I  saw  a  sprite, 

Pearly  white. 
Gazing  by  my  side — 
.Bathing  in  a  tide — 

Of  soft  light, 
As  flitting  moonbeams  plied. 

World  of  quiescent  grace 

Was  her  face : 
Saintly  was  her  mien — 
Tranquil  and  serene — 

And  no  trace 
Of  sin  or  guile  was  seen. 

Long,  and  of  golden  glare 

Was  her  hair; 
Trailing  to  the  ground — 
Hiding  as  it  wound — 

From  my  stare 
Her  mooned  spheres  so  round. 

Rapt,  lay  I  in  a  trance 

By  her  glance ; 
Flashing  forth  to  gleen — 
Flashing  chill  and  keen — 

As  a  lance 
Argent  tinged,  and  green. 


138  ESMERALDA. 

Of  no  pale  glaucous  tint 

Was  their  glint 
Luscious  green,  and  deep — 
Like  a  lake  at  sleep — 

And  no  stint 
On  yearnings  could  I  keep. 

Eager,  strove  I  to  press 

And  caress — 
Blinded  by  delight — 
Dazzled  by  the  sight — 

Of  each  tress 
Gairish  blonde  and  bright. 

The  tempting  houri  sped 

When  the  red 
Fulgid  nacker  ray — - 
Warned  her  it  was  day  : 
And  with  dread 

She  vanished  in  dismay. 
t 

Her  last  and  parting  gaze 

Was  of  praise : 
Smaragd,  arched  by  jet 
Tender,  passion  wet — 

And  its  blaze 
On  Earth  I'm  seeking  yet. 


KISSES. 

THERE'S  a  kiss  of  nature  charming, 
The  fond  mother's  kiss  to  her  child  : 

The  babe's  fancied  fears  disarming, 
By  the  touch  of  her  lips,  so  mild — 

That  visions  of  sleep,  alarming 
Fade  fast  from  its  mind  beguiled. 

A  kiss  that  ignoreth  reason, 

Is  the  kissing  of  roused  desire — 

'Tis  blind  to  a  future  treason, 

And  does  naught  of  the  past  inquire: 

For  the  spice  of  lust  in  season — 

Has  the  heat  and  the  strength  of  fire. 

There's  a  kiss  of  noble  pleasure, 
The  lover's  kiss  to  his  bride. 

An  embrace  that  hearts  can  treasure, 
With  feelings  of  joy  and  of  pride : 

Till  later,  those  hearts  can  measure, 
The  full  flood  of  the  marriage  tide — 

There's  a  kiss  as  warm  and  winning 
To  the  sense,  as  golden  wine — 

'Tis  the  kiss  of  love  beginning, 

For  whose  magic  lips  pout  and  pine : 

God  pardons  the  bliss  of  sinning, 
For  its  essence  is  right  divine — 


140 


SONNE  T. 

There's  a  kiss,  the  kiss  of  parting, 

An  unwelcome  sad  embrace  : 
When  unchecked  tears  are  darting, 

O'er  a  pallid  anxious  face — 
As  the  moment  nears  for  starting, 

O'er  treacherous  seas  and  worlds  of  space. 

There's  a  kiss  of  anguish  horrid, 

When  Death  comes  to  claim  its  prey : 

When  blanchened  are  cheeks  once  florid, 
When  mourners  kneel  round,  and  pray: 

That  kiss  on  a  chilly  forehead, 
When  a  loved  life  ebbs  away. 


SONNET. 

I  FAIN  would  find  the  home  my  sorrows  crave, 
A  rocky  shelter  in  some  chill  still  spot : 
Live,  cenobite  estranged,  within  a  grot — 

Near  sombrous  firs;  where  alpine  tempests  rave — 

With  roots  to  suck,  and  hot  raindrops  to  lave 
My  thirst ;  secluded,  would  I  live  and  rot 
In  drugget  foul,  glad  in  my  chosen  lot — 

Though  still  a  boy,  to  tamper  with  the  grave  ! 

Learn  what  I  know,  know  what  I  learned  and  sought, 

Plough  through  the  sterile  wilderness  of  thought, 

Muse  on  the  myriad  mysteries  of  old, 

Curse  every  day  and  hope  'twill  be  my  last, 

Dream  o'er  my  wishful  life,  its  dreams  of  gold, 
Dream  of  Eternity — and  of  the  past !  .  .  .  . 


LANGUAGE. 

THERE  is  a  language  I  have  heard  in  dreams 

Whispered  by  formless  clouds,  by  ouph  and  gnome, 
Sound  that  like  water  breaking  into  foam 

With  sad  unearthly  song  and  music  teems : 

An  idiom  unctuous  like  oil  in  streams, 

Full  of  grand  mellow  words  like  "star,"  like  "Rome!" 

Such  as  cannot  in  any  cobwebbed  tome 

Of  antique  lore  be  found ;  whose  carol  quemes, 

Subtle  of  strain  like  rich  sonorous  Zend 

Full  of  strange  syllables  that  have  no  end 

A  tongue  wherein  low  liquid  echoes  swell 

Of  worlds  unknown  ;  which  mortals  cannot  speak 

Something  like  velvet  crushed  upon  a  bell  .... 

Something  like  amorous  sighs,  or  murmured  Greek ! 


NEGRA    VENUS. 

ZAZZA,  fair  pompous-breasted  perfect  queen 
A  marvellous  glory  of  black  flesh  thou  wert. 

Vast,  sdainful  seas  now  oscillate  between 
Our  early  loves ;  although,  by  age  unhurt, 
Time-scorning,  still  my  faithful  mind  alert 

Recalls  the  splendors  of  thy  regal  mien, 
'3 


142  NEGRA    VENUS. 

Thy  supple  body,  perfumed,  hot,  ungirt 
Reposing  hamac-lulled,  slave-fanned,  inert, 
Where  towering  high  above,  palmettos  green 
Shaded  thy  nubile  form  from  sun-thrusts  keen. 

Can  I  forget  thy  velvet-ebon  skin, 

Thy  torse,  grace  flexile,  and  thine  eyes 

Mirage  of  sultry  prisms,  flashing  in — 

And  out,  like  fulg'rous  lightning  through  dark  skies? 
That  face,  like  Greece's  Phryne's,  praise  defies; 

For  thou  wert  grandly  black  !  and  must  be  kin 
To  Night,  whose  spirit  robed  thee  in  its  dyes 
Densest: — when  white-skinned  born,  thou  fell'st  its 
prize, 

And  by  its  kissings,  thou  of  Venus  twin 

To  black  wert  turned  :   sign  of  thy  mystic  sin. 

Can  I  forget  thy  coast,  fair  Zanzibar, 

Deluged  in  gold,  in  verdure,  and  in  light  ? 

And  thou  my  proud-browed  queen,  can  aught  debar 
Or  check  my  longings  for  thy  sunny  might  ? 
Well  I  revive  the  day,  the  hour,  the  site 

When  in  the  umber  shadows  from  afar 

I  saw  thee  hast'ning  through  the  jealous  Night : 
While  from  thy  burnished  body  black  and  bright 

Thou  threw'st  aside  thy  scarlet  veil-cymar 

Masking  the  raptures  of  thine  eyes'  black  star. 

Ah  !  I  adore  the  sweets  of  things  that  were, 

The  red  lust-loves,  the  deep  black  loves  of  Dream, 

The  music  of  thy  fire-throat's  Afric  purr, 
The  wonders  of  thy  dusky  eyes'  wild  gleam  : 
Whose  magic  twinklings,  radiant,  would  redeem 

The  sins  and  vilest  crimes  of  souls  that  err 


SPLEEN. 

In  deepest  Hells:  and  I,  while  mem'ries  teem, 
Recall  each  scorching  kisses'  pang  supreme. 
Kisses  like  sweet,  sad,  subtle  scents  of  myrrh, 
Kisses  rich,  soft  and  sensuous,  like  fur. 

May  19,  1873. 


143 


SPLEEN. 

ALL  the  strength  of  my  soul  thou  corrodest, 
Thou  hast  woven  a  raiment  of  blight 

For  my  shoulders  that  bend  as  thou  loadest 
My  body  with  burdens  of  fright : 

And  by  spirits  of  horror  thou  goadest 
My  soul  into  oceans  of  night ! — 

Thou  hast  shrivelled  a  cheek  that  was  florid 
With  thy  murmurous  voice  of  despair  ; 

Thou  hast  kindled  hell  fires  that  torrid 
Have  burned  my  vitality  bare, 

And  the  wrinkles  that  mark  a  young  forehead 
I  owe  to  thy  vigilant  care. 

All  the  art-loves  and  song-loves  of  beauty, 
All  the  musings  of  things  great  and  grand, 

All  the  splendors  of  justice  and  duty, 

Thou  hast  cleft  with  thy  poisonous  wand  : 

While  my  life  is  thy  prey  and  thy  booty 
And  thy  hot  claws  my  talent  have  spanned. 


144 


SPLEEN. 

Thou  hast  shattered  each  hope-pillared  palace 
I  built  in  my  fond  youthful  dream  ; 

Thou  hast  ruined  with  truculent  malice 
A  mind  wherein  word-glories  teem  ; 

Thou  hast  left  but  a  cloud-spirit  callous, 
Where  once  shone  a  soul -spirit's  beam. 

Thou  hast  changed  all  my  songs  into  sadness, 
All  the  gold  of  my  thoughts  into  brass : 

Thou  hast  wept  and  hast  whined  o'er  my  gladness 
For  the  arts  or  the  loves  of  a  lass; 

Thou  hast  driven  me  down  into  madness 
To  the  level  of  brutes  and  the  mass. 

So  accomplish  thy  fiend  work,  destroy  me, 

Pray  lavish  thy  dose  of  gangrene : 
But  cease  to  revile  and  annoy  me 

With  tauntings  so  merciless  keen  : 
Strike  coreward,  kill,  stifle,  o'ercloy  me, 

And  damn  me  in  torrents  of  spleen  ! 


BALLAD. 

MEN  in  mail, 

Crowd  the  hall ! 
To  my  tale, 

Listen  all. 

Knights  and  lords — - 
Sheathe  your  swords 
Cease  discords — 

Slave  and  thrall. 

Courtly  dames, 

Hasten  near, 
Leave  your  games, 

Lend  an  ear. 
For  my  song — 
If  not  long — 
Will  prolong — 

Our  good  cheer. 

And  to-night, 

Quoth  the  King; 
Dreams  of  fright, 

Will  I  bring. 
On  the  Rhine — 
Starlets  shine — 
O'er  our  wine — 

Let  us  sing. 
13* 


I46  BALLAD. 

'Tis  the  time, 

And  the  hour ; 
In  quaint  rhyme, 

Hearts  to  cower. 
Listen  well — 
While  I  tell 
er  the  bell- 
In  the  Tower. 


In  the  old —  ' 

Time  by  gone ; 
A  right  bold — 

Lord  high  born, 
Steel  arrayed — 
With  sharp  blade — 
Wooed  a  maid — 
One  bright  morn. 

She  was  frail, 
She  was  fair — 

And  was  pale, 
As  her  hair. 

Which  was  gray — 

As  the  ray — 

Of  dawn  day — 
Blonde  and  gair. 

And  her  eyes 
Were  as  blue, 

As  the  skies' 
Cobalt  hue. 


BALLAD.  147 

While  her  arras — 
And  her  charms — 
Brought  alarms — 
To  man's  view. 


The  brave  Knight, 
Passion-fanned, 

Of  this  sprite 
Sought  the  hand. 

And  did  grieve — 

I  believe — 

Till  Yule  Eve— 
In  the  land. 


It  is  said 

In  the  lay, 
They  were  wed 

On  Christ's  day. 
In  strange  tongue- 
Poets  sung — 
Love !  ye  young — 

Now,  alway. 

The  fair  bride 
Of  the  Knight, 

By  his  side 

Robed  in  white : 

Seemed  to  grin — 

O'er  a  sin — 

Held  within — 
With  delight. 


148  BALLAD. 


O'er  a  feast 

Spread  with  craft, 
Mirth  increased, 

Guests  had  laughed. 
Golden  wine — 
Juice  divine — 
Rich  and  fine — 

Had  been  quaffed. 

Sudden  rang 

With  a  knell, 
The  deep  clang 

Of  a  bell ! 
And  its  thrill — 
Sent  a  chill — 
Which  no  will — 

Could  e'er  quell. 

• . 

In  the  hall 

From  affright, 
One  and  all 

Rose  outright. 
Who  has  power — 
In  the  Tower — 
At  this  hour — 

Cried  the  Knight ! 

As  he  smote 

On  his  shield, 
The  bell's  throat 

Echo  reeled 


BALLAD.  149 

Grim  and  dire — 
As  the  fire — 
Of  God's  ire- 
It  repealed  ! 


Said  the  host, 

There's  a  spell, 
Or  a  ghost 

In  that  bell. 
For  its  zeal — 
My  cold  steel — 
It  shall  feel — 
Long  and  well. 

Unappalled, 

Anger-rife, 
He  now  called 

For  his  wife. 
To  embrace — 
Her  sweet  face — 
Fair  with  grace — 

'Fore  the  strife. 


But  the  dame 
Thus  implored 

Never  came 
To  her  lord. 

She  had  flown — 

All  alone — 

From  her  throne — 
At  the  board. 


150  BALLAD. 

The  Castel 

Heard  with  fear 
The  deep  bell 

Ring  out  clear, 
And  its  boom — 
Like  the  gloom — 
Of  the  tomb- 
Awed  the  ear. 


'Tis  the  din, 

Said  the  Knight, 
Of  a  Djinn 

Or  a  sprite. 
I  will  go — 
And  will  show — 
What  a  blow — 

I  can  smite. 


The  bell  chimed 
Its  dull  blare 

As  he  climbed 
The  tower  stair, 

Bat  and  owl — 

Fetid  foul — 

Ceased  to  scowl — 
'Neath  his  stare. 


And  each  guest 
With  a  will, 

Hoped  his  test 
He  would  fill. 


BALLAD. 

And  that  blood — 
Thick  as  mud — 
In  a  flood — 
He  would  spill. 


Ev'ry  light 

Low  had  burned, 

But  the  Knight 
Ne'er  returned, 

And  till  late — 

Did  friends  wait — 

Till  his  fate- 
Could  be  learned. 


Vassals  sought 

The  Castel, 
And  news  brought 

Of  the  bell. 
Which  still  rung — 
Where  it  hung — 
Its  iron  tongue — 

And  its  knell. 


The  Knight  bound 

On  the  floor, 
They  had  found 

In  his  gore ! 
His  limbs  strained — 
His  head  brained — 
His  breast  drained — 

To  the  core. 


BALLAD. 

By  his  side, 

Pale  and  mute, 
Sat  his  bride, 

Ghoul- like  brute. 
And  she  sucked — 
Blood  bemucked — 
And  hair,  plucked— 

By  the  root. 

The  guests  fled 

In  dismay, 
And  'tis  said 

In  the  lay 
The  bell  swings — 
The  ghoul  rings — 
And  she  sings — 

To  this  day. 

The  King's  song 
And  its  rhyme, 

Creeps  along 
To  our  time. 

The  same  bell — 

is  known  well — 

In  the  dell — 
Bergenheim. 


GRIPSHOLM. 

IN  a  lonely  site, 

Where  the  restless  white — 
Sad  waves  of  Lake  Malar  play, 

For  ages  alone, 

An  old  kirk  of  stone, 
Has-  stood  in  its  solitude  cold  and  gray, 
With  its  steeple  shaped  like  the  letter  A. 

When  the  twilight  falls, 

Its  shadow  appals, 
So  mystic  and  grim  it  seems  : 

While  none  can  control 

From  his  inner  soul 

Fears  chilling  and  vague  as  the  fears  of  dreams 
When  that  church  is  lit  by  the  moon's  pale  beams. 

When  the  nights  are  dark, 

Far  above  a  spark — 
From  the  belfry  darts  its  ray. 

Where  a  white  owl  sits 

And  perches,  and  flits, 

From  the  midnight  toll,  to  the  dawn  of  day, 
In  the  little  old  steeple  like  an  A. 

And  its  hoot  is  sad 

Like  the  echo  mad 

Of  some  plaintive  spirit  strain, 

'4  153 


154 


GRIPSHOLM. 


And  its  eyes  like  fire 

From  the  olden  spire 

Shine  lurid  through  sleet  through  snow  and  rain, 
With  a  fierce  gleam  tinged  as  if  by  pain. 

It  ceases  to  grieve 

When  on  cold  Yule  eve 
The  peasants  come  in  to  pray ; 

And  it  seems  to  gloat 

When  the  iron  throat — 
Of  the  great  bell  haileth  the  Saviour's  day, 
Far  up  in  the  steeple  like  an  A. 

For  it  sits  all  night 

Stern,  solemn,  and  white 
And  its  dismal  hoot  is  stilled  : 

While  it  listens  there 

To  the  evening  prayer 
And  winks  as  in  joy  of  some  wish  fulfilled 
While  the  timorous  peasants  watch  it,  thrilled. — 

And  they  murmur  low 

That  in  years  ago 
The  kirk's  first  bishop  was  slain  : 

In  the  graveyard's  gloom 

You  can  see  his  tomb, 
But  his  angered  soul  comes  to  earth  again 
Tftll  the  murderer  by  his  side  be  lain. 

And  they  draw  more  near 
As  they  tell  in  fear 
How  they  heard  their  mothers  say  ; 


LA   BELLE   IMPERIA. 


155 


That  the  lonely  owl 
With  the  great  white  scowl 
Was  the  soul  of  the  bishop  who  used  to  pray 
In  that  kirk  with  the  steeple  like  an  A. 


LA   BELLE    IMPERIA. 

Une  desconficture  d'hommes  ne  lui  coustoyt  qu'ung  gentil  soubrire. — 

BALZAC. 

IN  the  quaint  olden  city  of  Tours, 

In  the  good  year  twelve  hundred  and  ten, 
There  assembled  most  wonderful  men, 

Knights  and  prelates,  monks,  margraves  and  boors, 
Famous  sages  and  thinkers  of  ken, 

Gallant  minstrels  and  gay  troubadours. 

The  old  cardinal-soldier  Raguse, 

And  the  portly  old  bishop  of  Coire ; 

Men  of  mitre  of  crown  and  of  lyre — 
Men  whose  name  no  vile  scribe  could  accuse, 

Came  in  brilliant  and  grotesque  attire 
In  their  cassocks  of  silk,  and  vair-shoes. 

The  fat  abbots  in  drugget  and  clout, 

Their  round  bellies  o'erfilled  with  good  cheer  : 
All  the  vassals  and  footmen  of  spear, 

All  the  jesters  with  quip  and  with  shout, 
All  the  warriors  with  steel-woven  gear, 

All  the  people  of  frolic  about — • 


'56 


LA   BELLE   IMPERIA. 


Used  to  gather  within  the  arcade 

In  the  quaint  and  the  picturesque  street 
Where  the  Flower  of  Touraine  used  to  greet 

The  assembly  of  wit  and  of  blade, 

Where  Imperia  the  peerless  would  meet — 

All  her  guests  in  their  splendor  arrayed. 

Where  silk,  velvet,  and  satin  were  spread 

In  luxurious  lavish  and  pride ; 

Where  the  palace's  portals  oped  wide — 
To  the  throng  of  young  gallants  who  led — 

Through  the  corridors,  women  who  vied 
In  their  radiance  with  stars  overhead  ! 

Where  strange  coifs  and  odd  costumes  would  blend 
With  the  glitter  of  casque  and  of  shield : 
Where  the  hauberk  and  buckler  gold-steeled — 

Would  shine  midst  the  dames  who  would  bend — 
Their  lace  head-dresses  prone  as  they  kneeled 

On  Imperia's  throne  ere  ascend — 

Here  the  laughter,  the  mirth,  and  the  song — 
Swelled  in  music  tumultuous  and  gay, 
Here  from  vespers  till  coming  of  day 

Did  the  revellers  orgies  prolong ; 

With  the  joys  of  the  cup,  and  the  lay — 

Of  the  troubadour  chanting  his  wrong — 

From  great  goblets  of  richly-wrought  gold 
With  the  arms  and  device  of  Touraine, 
Did  the  guests  tope  and  empty  and  drain — 

The  rich  wines  of  Navarre,  strong  and  old, 
Till  the  corridors  echoed  again 

With  their  shouts  and  the  tales  that  they  told. 


LA   BELLE  IMPERIA. 

On  her  throne  Queen  of  beauty  and  charm 

Sat  Imperia  the  fairest  of  all, 

While  above  her  on  oaken  glossed  wall — 
Hung  great  weapons  of  torment  and  harm  ; 

Mammoth  glaives  to  be  carried  on  spall, 
Swords  and  daggers  whose  sight  brought  alarm. 

And  Bordeaux's  great  Archbishop  to  right 

Stood  to  serve  her  with  sweets,  and  with  wine : 
Baudricourt  the  scarred  hero  malign, 

At  her  left  showed  and  strutted  his  might, 
While  about  her  shone  jewels  divine — 

While  around  her  shone  splendors  of  light ! 

Never  sovereign  had  handsomer  court, 

Never  Queen  had  more  thralls  or  more  gems, 
For  they  clustered  like  grapes  to  the  hems — 

Of  her  satin  robes,  fretted  and  wrought — 
With  brocade,  gold  and  huge  diadems 

Each  one  given  for  love  and  not  bought. 

Great  carousal  and  wassail  she  said 

Is  the  victor  and  soother  of  time  ! 

Sing  ye  bards  in  your  happiest  rhyme, 
Would  she  cry  as  she  smiled  white  and  red — 

With  a  birdlike  coy  motion  sublime, 
'Tis  the  hour  to  be  gay  and  to  wed — 

And  the  poets  would  warble  again 
For  soft  music  can  sorrows  dispel  : 
And  while  rebec,  lute,  cithern,  would  swell — 

In  sweet  unison  !  goldenest  rain 
Whether  angelot,  crown,  or  agnel, 

Would  be  tossed  by  the  proud  Castellaine. 
14* 


157 


;8  LA   BELLE   IMPERIA. 

Then  the  noble  de  Coucy  rose  up 

Stung  to  quick  by  some  haughty  remark  ;     . 

There  was  danger  and  death  in  the  spark — 
Of  his  eye,  as  he  hurled  his  gold  cup — 

At  proud  Sigismond,  Baron  of  Arcque, 
When  he  told  him  like  swine  he  did  sup  ! 

And  with  feverous  strength  he  unsheathed 
His  long  rapier  of  damascened  steel : 
Torqued,  embossed  in  silver,  for  zeal 

By  the  Spaniards'  great  emperor  bequeathed, 
And  he  tempesting  swore  it  should  feel — 

The  hot  vitals  of  Arcque  as  he  breathed  ! 

Come  laggard  he  cried,  thou  hast  said 
That  Imperia  our  lucific  Queen 
Was  a  sullen  pute,  foul  and  obscene, 

And  for  this  thou  shalt  gasp  till  art  dead  : 
While  her  mercies  shall  not  intervene, 

Till  my  sword  by  thy  blood  has  been  fed. 

Thou  art  oathish  and  chippy  I  swear 
Howled  the  Baron,  with  menacing  eye, 
Say  thy  Aves  and  Paters  for  I 

Shall  bring  thee  to  thy  milk  in  despair, 
Thou  ruffian  !  thou  bastard  !  come  try — 

To  pull  blood  from  the  roots  of  my  hair  ! 

And  a  scabbard  I'll  make  of  thine  heart 
Proud  laird  !  while  yon  lubrical  wench 
Shall  sniff  up  thy  foul  body's  dead  stench 

When  my  glaive  shall  have  cleft  thee  in  part, 
For  the  thirst  of  my  ires  I  will  quench 

In  the  loam  of  thy  bile  and  thy  smart — ! 


LA   BELLE   IMPERIA. 

Then  Imperia  the  lepid,  the  fair  ! 

Smiled  demurely  and  beckoned  her  page. 

Let  these  bold  cavaliers  in  their  rage — 
Unmolested  have  space  and  fresh  air, 

Clear  the  vestibule  now  while  they  wage 
Their  combat  so  glorious  and  rare. 

And  when  the  Knights  struggled  she  laughed, 
And  would  clap  her  white  hands  in  delight. 
What  I  dote  on  is  passionate  fight — 

Was  her  cry  as  she  nibbled,  and  quaffed — 
Sugar-cakes  and  sweet  golden  wines,  light, 

While  admiring  each  Palatin's  craft. 

For  they  waxed  warm  with  anger  and  smote 
With  a  nerve  upon  helmet  and  mail, 
They  were  tiger-like  lithe  to  assail — 

And  ward  blows  from  the  breast  or  the  throat, 
Till  at  last  loss  of  blood  made  them  pale, 

And  the  vassals  could  weariness  note. 

Neither  sued  nor  for  mercy  nor  rest, 
And  continued  with  shout  and  with  yell 
Till  all  woundful  and  gory  they  fell 

All  bedabbled  with  blood  on  their  crest, 
Then  Imperia  would  say  "it  is  well" 

Let  them  die  and  their  deeds  shall  be  blest. 

Then  the  laughter  the  mirth  and  the  song 
Kept  increasing  tumultuous  and  gay, 
When  the  corpses  were  carried  away 

Did  the  jolly  Touringians  prolong — 
All  the  joys  of  the  cup,  with  the  lay 

Of  the  troubadour  chanting  his  wrong. 


159 


MOON-MUSIC. 

BLOND  moonbeams  shine  in  symphonies  of  light 
Upon  the  surface  of  a  sleeping  lake, 
Blue  shadows,  deep  in  dormant  depths  opaque 

Flit  under  dainty  ripples,  moonlit,  bright, 

Around,  the  myriad  voices  of  the  night 

Blend  with  the  moon's  vague  song,  and  make 
Wonderful  concerts  of  soft  tunes,  that  break 

In  foam,  in  sheen,. in  toneful  soulful  flight: 
Sound  like  the  kiss  of  wave  upon  a  pearl — 
Sound  like  the  flesh-thrill  of  an  amorous  girl — 

Music  so  dreamlike  subtle,  that  no  ear 
Save  that  of  muser  can  enjoy  its  balm, 

Sound  like  the  murmur  of  a  falling  tear — 

Sound  like  a  twilight  hush  of  endless  calm.   .  . 


MOONBEAMS. 

RECALLEST  thou  that  night 

Of  delight, 

When  the  moon  in  play — 
Clad  thee  oh  my  fay — 
In  a  silv'ry  ray — 

Milky  white, 

To  ignite 

Fires  which  in  thee  lay? 
1 60 


MOONBEAMS. 

Recallest  thou  the  scene 

So  serene, 

Where  we  held  our  tryst — 
Where  our  lips  first  kissed — 
Who  could  joys  resist — 
When  the  green, 
Bathed  in  sheen 
Gem-like  shone  through  mist ! 

Recallest  thou  when  nude 

Fancy  crude, 

How  a  moonbeam  pearled — 
From  the  star-sprent  world, 
Kissed  thy  blonde  hair,  curled- 

As  I  viewed 

Passion-lewd, 
Ringlets  half  unfurled —  ! 

Recallest  thou  the  hue 

Nacreous  blue, 
Of  thy  form  so  round  : 
When  thy  lily-crowned — 
Tresses  to  the  ground 

Toucht  the  dew, 

'Neath  the  yew 
Where  we  lay  arm  bound  ! 

What  tints  of  wondrous  dye 

The  moon's  eye, 
Darted  on  thy  face  : 
Silvered  by  its  grace — 


MOONBEAMS. 

While  my  one  embrace — 

With  thy  sigh — 

Rustled  by, 
Like  leaflets  whirred  through  space 


And  no  skilled  artist's  brush 
Could  the  blush — 
Copy  of  thy  cheek  : 

Rosy,  tipt  with  weak — 

Frozen  moonbeams  meek — 
Mild  of  flush, 
White  and  lush, 

Caprice  of  a  streak  ! 

Oh  !  the  grand  color,  gair 

Of  thy  hair, 

When  the  argent  stream — 
Pouring  beam  on  beam — 
Met  its  fulvous  gleam — 

Trailing  fair 

O'er  thy  bare 
Shoulders  curved  supreme  ! 

And  as  thy  jet  eyes  gazed 

Passion  raised, 
Humid-ebon,  cloyed — 
Opaline — o'erjoyed — 
Hope  and  ardor  buoyed — 
Then  I  crazed 
Pressed  and  praised, 
Bounding  breasts  spheroid  ! 


NIAGARA. 

Recallest  them  that  sweet 
Dream  complete, 
Witnessed  by  the  moon — 
God's  or  Demon's  boon — 
Won  and  lost  too  soon — 
Bold  yet  bleit 
Of  conceit, 
Acmed  in  thy  swoon  ! 

Night  of  voluptuous  pain 

Balm  of  brain, 
Nothing  can  replace — 
Nothing  can  retrace — 
Miracles  of  grace — 

Which  time's  stain 
Gnaws  in  vain, 
But  never  can  efface. 
SEVILLE,  December,  1872. 


NIAGARA. 

C  HAOS  and  void  of  worlds  preadamite  ! 

Lylacqs  of  clouds,  Babelian  towers  of  air  ! 
Maelstroms  of  seething  elements,  shade-night, 

Immensities  of  space,  ignescent  glare — 
Of  shifting  meteors,  dire,  terrific,  bright ! 

Bewildering  grandeurs  of  a  rising  prayer  ! 
God  heard  your  cries  for  formful  life,  and  light — 

Pellucid  star-sprent  Heavens  glimmered,  fair  ! 
A  world  was  born,  vast  shapes,  grand  seas,  were  fused 

In  perfect  symmetry,  and  naught  accused 


1 64  SONNET. 

The  Lord  of  folly,  save  Niagara's  land, 

Whose  soul  rebelled  and  mocked  a  gift  of  mud : 

So  smote  he  it  with  fire-glaive  firm  of  hand, 

The  wound  brings  forth  white  cataracts  of  blood  ! 


SONNET. 

I  ONCE  could  weep  when  women  wept ;  their  tears 

Whether  of  joy  or  pain,  or  love  for  me 
Moved  all  the  meekness  of  my  soul ;  for  fears, 

And  terrene  guiles  had  spared  me :   I  was  free 
And  pure  of  holiest  thought,  yet  young  in  years. 

My  lips  breathed  freshness  and  its  sympathy. 
The  coreless  skeleton  of  Time  now  leers 

Upon  the  threshold  of  my  soul.     I  see — 
Callous,  indifferent,  scenes  of  blood  and  crime 

The  poor  despair,  the  wicked  upward  climb, 
My  trusts  in  God  and  youth  I  long  have  spurned 

My  sinning  life-tides  slowly  Deathward  creep, 
But  oh  !  how  has  my  skeptic  spirit  yearned 

To  shed  one  simple  tear  when  women  weep  ! 


ROME. 

RUIN  and  rot  their  raging  rule  have  rolled 

Rebellions,  o'er  the  glories  of  thy  dead  ! 
Recall  not  regal  dreams  of  carnage  red, 

Revels  and  triumphs,  routs  and  robes  of  gold, 
Revert  no  vain  regret  on  splendors  fled  : 

Rude,  rushing  time,  with  rigid,  ruthless  cold, 
Ravishing,  reckless,  rusts  thy  royal  head  ; 

Ravages  sanctuaries  once  rose-souled. 
Rest !  in  the  rank  recesses  of  each  dome 
Rest  !  oh  grand  town  revered,  a  spirit-home 
Ready  wilt  find  when  worlds  have  passed  away, 

Regions  of  air  and  odorous  realms  of  sky. 
Restored  in  spheres  of  everlasting  day, 

Rome  thou  shalt  never  know  what  'tis  to  die  ! 


PERFUME. 

WHEN  thou  art  from  me,  when  I  cannot  glance 
Upon  thy  rarest  beauty,  and  when  mind — 
And  soul  are  panoplied  in  veils  unkind 

Of  thought  forgetful,  errant;  when  a  trance 

Dims  all  my  sense,  then  a  sweet  spirit  grants 
A  power  to  feel  thy  presence  :   for  I  find 
Thine  image  in  strange  forms,  when  musings  wind 

Coils  of  aromas,  steeped  like  wines  of  France 

15  165 


1 66  SONNET. 

In  fragrant  vagueness,  redolent  and  sharp  ; 

Perfumes  that  bring  to  mind  a  soul-thrilled  harp, 
Odors  ecstatic,  smells  of  youth's  desire, 

Musk  blent  with  sound,  or  music  heard  through  hair  . 
The  scents  of  breaths  that  gasp  with  loveful  fire 

Scents  of  thy  loveliness,  nude,  white,  and  fair ! 


SONNET. 


I  LOVE  thine  eyes  that  beckon  smiles :   two  souls 

Radiant  with  lustres  flashing  forth  grand  fires! 

Their  opulence  of  glamour  goads  desires  : 
Should  sad  words  murmur,  then  their  glance  condoles. 
A  harmony  of  tears,  heart's  manna,  rolls — 

Down  cheeks  disrosed;  until  a  lip  inquires — 

Grief's  secrets ;  then  the  first  woe-ebb  retires 
In  tranquil  tides;  alone,  the  gaze  consoles. 

A  smile  !  reflection  of  the  soul's  bright  sun 

Chases  all  chimeras  of  pain  : — I  shun 
Dark  grooves  of  palsied  thought,  becharmed,  I  look 

And  rivet  all  mine  essence  in  thine  eyes, 
Vague  as  the  music  of  a  moonbathed  brook ! 

Vague  as  great  sultry  clouds,  as  twilight  skies  ! 


SONNET. 

IN  great  grand  worlds  above,  my  spirit  soars, 
Above  our  turbid  spheres,  above  in  air : 
Roaming  insatiate  through  the  planet's  glare 

To  sombrous  vales  !  to  sunless  moonless  shores ! 

In  cloud-cathedrals  prays  it — and  implores 
The  vital  virile  vim  to  win  the  rare — 
Prized  benison  of  reaching  regions,  where — 

The  souls  of  fancy  hide  their  precious  stores. 
Above  !  above  !  errs  on  my  spirit-thought, 
Spurred  on  to  search  for  things  unseen,  untaught, 

Tremulous,  hope-girt,  it  pursues  its  flight 
Through  skies  crepuscular  of  lurid  glow 

Bearing  back  marvels  from  beyond  the  Night — 
To  feed  my  mind  awaiting  them  below  ! 


VISION. 

ONCE  on  a  slumbrous  languid  summer's  night, 
I  sat  content,  and  courted  pleasant  dreams  ; 
The  full  moon  poured  upon  me  lambent  streams 
Of  glary  splendent  incandescent  light. 
And,  as  my  fancy  pondered  mind-remote, 

I  sudden  saw  from  out  the  sprinkled  beams, 
(Clad  in  a  trailing  robe  of  ghostly  white) 
A  girlish  phantom  form  emerge  and  float, 
With  one  great  crimson  gash  upon  her  throat  ! 

167 


1 68  VISION. 

A  pallid  suffering  vision  was  she,  and, 
Direfully  paler  'neath  that  argent  moon. 
Eyes  had  she  :  startled,  like  the  eyes  of  loon, 
While  nervous  spasms  seemed  to  twitch  her  hand. 
Hand,  small  and  dimpled,  all  begemmed,  high  bred, 

Hair,  purplish,  wavy,  in  confusion  strewn 
Over  a  youthful  bosom,  robust,  grand — 
The  deep  long  throat-wound  now  profusely  bled, 
Down  on  the  white  robe  fell  the  hot  drops,  red. 

My  wondering  presence  she  seemed  not  to  heed, 
Her  great  eyes  trembled  in  the  moon's  cold  glare, 
I  saw  her  wipe  the  blood  off  clotted  hair 

And  then  she  sighed  : — a  sigh  of  utter  greed. 

Pausing,  she  spied  me  without  signs  of  awe, 
And  turned  her  pale  sweet  face  divinely  fair 

Full  on  me  as  if  forced  by  pain  or  need — 

I  shuddered,  and  again  unwilling  saw 

That  smooth  smooth  hideous  cut  all  bleeding,  raw  .  .  . 

A  thrill  came  o'er  me,  but  I  did  not  fear, 

And  with  quick  words  of  kindness  to  her  spake : 
Assuaging  fondnesses  to  ease  her  ache  :  — 
Her  great  vague  eyes  were  moistened  by  a  tear. 
But  still  no  answer  moved  her  hueless  lip. 

The  moonbeams  grew  more  dim,  more  sad,  opaque, 
She  listened  to  me  with  a  ravished  ear 
Advanced,  then  back  into  the  light  would  slip, 
While  still  I  saw  that  blood-drain  ooze  and  drip  .   .   . 

But  as  the  last  pale  ray  illumed  the  sill, 

Her  poor  pale  face  was  shadowed  o'er  by  dread  : 
She  gazed  on  me  awhile,  and  bent  her  head 


WO  OD-DREAMS.  169 

Close  to  my  throbbing  breast,  now  hot,  now  chill, 
I  sighed  to  rouse  the  memories  of  her  spleen 

But  asked  "Whence  comes  that  frightful  wound  so 

red?" 
********** 

With  slow  and  solemn  voice  that  made  me  thrill, 

She  uttered  but  one  word,  oh  deathlike  keen  ! 

That  word,  that  horrid  word,  was guillotine  ! 


WOOD-DREAMS. 

ALLEGORICAL. 

IN  a  glade  I  prayed, 

'Neath  a  giant  elm : 
And  essayed  to  vade 

In  a  dreamy  realm 

The  floods  of  thought  that  whelm 
A  mortal's  mind  in  shade. 

The  air  was  by  care 

And  by  sorrow  stilled  ; 
And  the  glare  so  gair 

Of  the  glow-worms,  thrilled — 

My  lone  heart  overfilled 
By  the  grandeur  of  prayer. 

The  shrill  cry  and  sigh 
Of  the  winter  breeze, 

Moaned  by  in  the  sky 
Through  the  cedar-trees, 
While  on  both  bended  knees, 

My  sad  gaze  erred  on  high. 

'5* 


i  yo 


WOOD-DREAMS. 

And  my  thought  was  fraught 
With  pious  delight, 

As  I  sought  and  wrought 
In  my  mind  that  night, 
The  fond  chimeras  bright 

Which  the  solitude  brought. 

Yet  Hell  with  its  fell 

And  malignant  power, 
Thought  well  then  to  quell 

My  peace  of  an  hour ; 

And  my  soul  forced  to  cower 
Was  o'erawed  by  its  spell. 

By  my  side  I  spied 

A  strange  maiden  fair : 
Who  with  pride,  untied 

Matted  fibrous  hair, 

And  with  soft  tempting  stare, 
All  my  passions  defied. 

And  she  gazed,  till  crazed 
By  the  wondrous  sight  • 

I  grew  mazed,  and  dazed 
By  her  form  moon-white; 
For  a  sad  and  wild  light 

From  two  deep  green  eyes  blazed. 

As  I  feared,  she  neared 
The  spot  where  I  knelt ; 

And  appeared  and  leered 
Till  my  whole  mind  felt, 
As  if  girt  by  a  belt 

Of  a  mystery  weird. 


WOOD-DREAMS. 

On  my  breast,  caressed 
By  tresses  of  gold, 

Her  lips'  zest  she  pressed 
With  vigor  untold, 
But  her  body  was  cold, 

Like  a  serpent's  at  rest — 

While  the  green  mild  sheen 
Of  her  emerald  eyes, 

And  her  mien  of  queen 
To  my  soul's  surprise 
Caused  my  ardor  to  rise 

To  a  height  unforeseen. 

Like  an  asp  her  grasp 
Was  sultry  and  tight, 

'Neath  her  clasp,  my  gasp 
Rang  out  in  the  night 
Half  kiss-smothered  in  flight 

By  her  sting-kiss  like  wasp. 

Then  with  heat  replete 
To  possess  I  yearned, 

To  eat  of  her  sweet 

The  sweet  I  had  spurned  : 
While  my  hot  kisses  burned 

As  I  fondled  her  feet. 

But  the  flame  of  shame 
Lurked  not  in  her  eye, 

And  no  name  of  blame 
In  my  trance  heard  I, 
Save  the  low  droning  sigh 

Of  a  heart  I  could  claim. 


171 


172 


WOOD-DREAMS. 

Dream-awake,  opaque 
With  the  sweat  of  pain, 

I  now  ache  to  slake 
My  passion  profane, 
With  the  sprite,  but  in  vain 

'Twas  a  Lamia,  a  snake — 

Elf-foiled  I  recoiled 
For  the  gnomish  strife 

Fear-spoiled  and  I  boiled 
As  I  clutched  my  knife — 
In  her  bosom  Hell-rife 

Its  carved  hilt  I  blood-soiled. 

Through  gore  to  the  core 
Of  her  frame  it  went, 

More,  more,  foaming  sore 
The  cold  flesh  it  rent ; 
Till  beneath  me  she  bent 

More  appeased  than  before. 

As  she  bled  fear-fed 
In  the  frantic  fray, 

Though  vim-dead  with  dread 
Hell  called  her  away, 
And  with  first  light  of  day 

My  strange  vision  had  fled — 

^         #         #         #         *         * 


CHANSON. 

I  KNOW  you  love  me  now 

Before  I  disbelieved, 
And  I  will  tell  you  how 

This  fancy  I  conceived. 

You  thought  me  dead — and  fear 
Prevented  grief  to  speak  : 

Only  a  pearly  tear 

Fell  down  your  pallid  cheek. 


PARDONED. 

JUDGES  of  Venice,  wisest  of  men, 
Grave  and  stern  sat  the  Council  of  Ten : 

Who  could  their  terrible  thoughts  surmise? 
Who  could  decipher  their  inner  ken  ; 

Black  as  the  masks  that  screened  their  eyes. 

Bring  in  the  culprit  the  Council  cried! 
He  who  so  daring  our  power  defied  : 

Loosen  his  fetters,  slacken  his  chains 
And  should  he  lie  to  us,  woe  betide 

The  prick  of  our  wrath  is  full  of  pains  ! 


i74 


PARDONED. 

The  victim  stood  'fore  their  piercing  gaze 
He  dared  with  boldness  his  eyes  to  raise: 

He  seemed  not  to  fear  the  brutes  in  black 
And  he  shrank  not  from  the  scorching  blaze 

Of  the  fire  that  burned  beside  the  rack. 

He  sought  no  mercy,  he  formed  no  plea, 
He  trembled  not  and  his  speech  was  free. 

While  the  baffled  Council  scowled  and  frowned 
By  the  laws  of  justice  forced  to  see 

That  no  proofs  of  treason  could  be  found. 

Well  spoken  hireling,  now  get  thee  hence 
The  Council  pardons  thy  slight  offence, 

But  e'er  thou  hiest,  embrace  yon  shrine 
For  from  the  virgin  a  recompense 

Thou  well  hast  earned  of  her  hand  divine. 

The  victim  hastened  with  joyous  pace 

And  neared  a  statue,  where,  mild  with  grace 

The  blest  Madonna  stood  carved  in  stone 
With  her  arms  outstretched,  and  saintly  face, 

Seeming  to  pity  him  from  her  throne. 

Her  sacred  form  he  had  scarce  caressed 
When  he  felt  his  body  firmly  pressed — 

Two  horrid  arms  with  sharp  daggers  sprent 
Nailed  him  inert  to  a  knife-tipped  breast 

Till  crushed  and  bleeding  his  limbs  were  rent. 

The  statue  swerves  and  the  corse  is  thrown 
From  its  fiendish  clutch  and  grip  of  stone 

Deep,  deep  in  a  hideous  trap  below 
Where  grim  with  their  rippling  monotone 

Thick  crimson  waters  ebb  and  flow. 


BALLAD    TO    THE  MOON. 

Judges  of  Venice,  wisest  of  men, 
Grave  and  stern  sat  the  Council  of  Ten : 

Who  could  their  terrible  thoughts  surmise 
Who  could  decipher  their  inner  ken 

Black  as  the  masks  that  screened  their  eyes. 


175 


BALLAD    TO    THE     MOON. 

THOU  marvel  of  the  night ! 
Flamant  and  argent  eye, 

Dizzy  bright — 
Why  roamest  thou  so  high  ? 

My  mind  can  ne'er  unreave 
The  wonders  of  thy  stare, 

When  each  eve — 
Beameth  thy  nitid  glare. 

Is  it  at  times  from  grief 

Thou  mask'st  thyself  in  clouds  ? 

And  relief — 
Seek'st  in  their  dusky  shrouds? 

Hast  thou  perchance  a  soul 
Beneath  thy  blonden  face 

That  can  troul — 
With  thee  through  spheres  of  space  ? 

Huge  opal,  set  with  stars ! 
The  diamonds  of  the  sky 

Nothing  mars — 
The  beauty  of  thine  eye. 


176  BALLAD    TO    THE   MOON. 

Canst  thou  not  splendent  orb 
To  queme  a  mystic  mirth 

All-absorb — 
The  glance  of  men  from  Earth  ? 

Does  not  thy  lustre  harm 
Some  victim's  witched  gaze 

By  the  charm 
Of  grim  and  vicious  rays? 

I  call  thee  not  a  boon, 
I  even  doubt  thy  sign 

For  oh  moon ! — 
Oft  fatal  is  thy  shine  ! 

Thou  shed'st  thy  silv'ry  sheen 
Through  lucid  seas  of  blue — 

Calm,  serene, 
But  is  that  shimmering  true  ? 

I  know  not,  but  pretend 
That  thou  dost  take  delight 

To  befriend — 
All  lovers  when  in  plight. 

When  from  a  cloudy  veil 
Free,  darts  thy  pallid  leer 

Softly  pale — 
Its  fulgor  stilleth  fear. 

Some  beauty  blushes  deep, 
Too  far  perhaps  has  strayed 

Canst  thou  keep — 
The  secret  of  that  maid  ? 


BALLAD    TO    THE  MOON. 

For  oft  inopportune 
Thou  followest  the  pair, 
Curious  moon — 
Thou  hast  no  business  there  ! 

I  sometimes  fear  thy  grin 
Teems,  though  'tis  bland,  of  guile, 

And  of  sin — 
Is  carved  thy  crescent  smile. 

And  more  than  that  I  think 
When  fleering  on  the  snow, 

That  thy  blink- 
Is  dire  for  us  below  ! 

Its  glisten  on  the  rime, 
Warns  me  with  phantom  tort 

That  my  time — 
On  Earth  to  live  is  short. 

I  sit  with  laden  heart 
Our  gazes  meet  alway, 

What  thou  art — 
My  ken  can  never  say. 

Perhaps  a  fiend  unhelled — 
Punished  by  Gods  to  float 

And  compelled — 
Down  on  our  world  to  gloat. 

Forced  to  traverse  the  spheres, 
And  for  man's  welfare  work 

For  all  years — 

Though  thy  heart-hatreds  lurk. 
16 


178  BALLAD    TO    THE  MOON. 

If  true,  how  thou  must  burn 
Dim  with  a  thwarted  rage, 

And  must  turn — 
Vexed  in  thine  azure  cage ! 

Thy  pearl-peep  oft  is  sad, 
Blank  sad,  as  if  in  pain — 

And  as  mad, 
Fleers  thine  oaf- eye  again. 

As  lurid  fulvous  gold 

Glow'st  thou  when  autumn  flies 

Icy  cold — 
Cloud-dappled  in  the  skies. 

Why  does  that  other  tinge 
Of  lush  deep  crimson  lower  ? 

Dost  thou  cringe — 
Beneath  a  rod  of  power  ? 

I  love  thee  o'er  a  lake 

When  thy  gair  rays  immersed, 

Seem  to  slake — 
A  fierce  and  shining  thirst. 

And  love  thee  when  thy  gleen 
In  fantasies  of  glow, 
Chilly  keen — 
Whitens  the  very  snow  ! 

I  love  to  see  thee  shine 
Over  the  castled  gloom — 

On  the  Rhine : 
When  listed  shadows  loom. 


BALLAD    TO    THE   MOON.  179 

The  glaucous  wavelets  ebb, 
Foam-woven  by  thy  sheen 

In  a  web — 
Of  fire-pearls,  white  and  green. 

While  as  the  hamlet  prays, 
Gambol  on  gabled  roofs 

Airy  fays — 
Odd  manikins  and  ouphs. 

The  eye-bloodshotten  gnomes 
Sport,  whilst  a  siren  chants 

As  she  combs — 
Her  hair  from  river  plants. 

The  owl  alone  can  brook 
Thy  frown  when  soaring  by, 

And  can  look — 
Up  in  thy  globous  eye. 

Of  thee  a  priceless  boon 
I  ask  when  I  am  dead, 

And  oh  moon 
Recall  thee  I  have  pled. 

The  power  to  grant  is  thine 
For  all  from  thee  I  crave, 

Is  to  shine — 
Sadly  upon  my  grave. 

****** 

Huge  opal  set  with  stars 
The  diamonds  of  the  sky, 

Nothing  mars — 
The  beauty  of  thine  eye. 


CHINOISERIE. 

EVERY  steeple 
Of  Nankin  did  gleen  and  gleam, 

When  the  people 
Escorted  with  shout  and  scream, 
To  the  river's  side — 
My  young  Amoy  bride — 

Where  a  chft-built  bark  launched  out  in  the  stream 
This  maiden  as  fair  as  a  silvery  dream — 

On  the  yellow 
Light  ochre-waved  Yang-tse-Kiang, 

To  the  mellow 

Sonorous  deep  cling  and  clang, 
Of  gongs  and  of  bells — 
Resounding  through  dells — 
In  our  guaiacum  junk  we  glided  and  sang 
Till  the  river  reechoed,  reechoed  and  rang. 

Hard  beladen 
Our  junk  carried  tea  and  tile, 

And  the  maiden 

Fair  Hwa  of  the  "  Amber  smile," 
Who  mused  as  she  fanned — 
Her  cheek  with  small  hand — 
And  gazed  without  trace  of  distrust  or  guile, 
As  we  sailed  on  gaily  for  many  a  mile. 
1 80 


CHINOISERIE.  i  S  i 

Ou  we  scudded 
Through  China  to  far  Soutchou, 

Lit  and  flooded 
By  skies  of  a  turquoise  blue, 
While  Hwa  chewed  betel 
Sipped  tea,  and  would  tell 
Of  her  joy  and  her  wonder  at  every  new  view 
As  we  passed  mangrove  thickets  and  towns  of  bamboo. 

And  the  splendor 
Of  midnight  moons  shed  its  glare, 

On  the  tender 

Hwa,  slender,  frail  young  and  fair, 
As  I  kissed  her  feet — 
So  cunning  and  neat — 
Half  hidden  by  babouches,  garnished  rare 
With  pearls  and  with  jazels,  with  beads  and  vair. 

But  a  galley — 
Of  pirates,  a  heartless  gang, 

By  a  valley — 

Concealed,  now  on  us  sprang, 
We  in  irons  were  bound — 
But  poor  Hwa  was  drowned — 
Far  out  in  the  ochre-waved  Yang-ste-Kiang 
While  the  river  with  shrieks  reechoed  and  rang.  .  . 


1 6* 


MAD. 

THE  sun  goes  down — 
The  Heavens  frown — 
Far  from  the  town — 

Why  am  I  here  ? 
See  the  clouds  swarm  ! 
Each  hath  a  form, 
Can  I  keep  warm  ? 

Where  shall  I  veer? 

Bless  thee  oh  rain  ! 
Deluge  the  plain, 
For  I  would  fain — 

Quench  my  hot  thirst. 
Moan  on  and  sigh, 
Winds  coursing  by, 
Mute  will  I  lie, 

Mute  and  accursed  .   . 

What  a  dark  night — 
Shadows  of  fright 
Menacing  sight 

Dart  by  my  side  ! 
Will  there  no  moon 
Later  or  soon, 
Shine  opportune 

My  steps  to  guide  ? 
182 


MAD.  183 


Where  can  I  find 
I,  sorrow-blind, 
Somebody  kind 

Light  and  a  home  ? 
Long  have  I  strayed, 
Who  will  bring  aid 
Why  was  I  made 

Houseless  to  roam  ? 


Would  could  I  sleep, 
Dance,  shout  or  leap, 
I  cannot  weep 

But  I  can  think. 
And  I  discern, 
O'er  fields  of  fern, 
Big  eyes  that  burn 

Big  eyes  that  wink. 

God  !  I  am  cold, 
Blind,  sick  and  old, 
Yet  I  am  bold — 

And  I  defy. 
Snow  and  snow-flakes, 
Ice  and  ice-lakes, 
Serpents  and  snakes 

Hell,  Earth  and  Sky. 

For,  does  she  know 
I  wander  so 
Cares  she  or  no 
If  I  despair  ? 


1 84  MAD. 

Penh !  she  cannot 
Pity  my  lot — 
Much  better  rot, 
I  do  not  care. 


May  she  in  Hell 
Linger  and  dwell, 
Until  the  smell 

Of  her  scorcht  flesh- 
Sicken  the  flames, 
And  may  her  shames 
Sins  and  bad  aims 

Crackle  afresh. 


Oh  how  my  brain 
Trembles  with  pain  : 
Phantoms  insane 

Hoot  for  my  death. 
Air,  wood,  all  things 
Vanish  on  wings. 
Hotter  than  stings 

Burneth  my  breath. 

Were  I  a  child, 
Pure,  undefiled, 
Pleasure  beguiled 

Were  I  a  boy — 
From  the  tree-tops, 
Rain  that  ne'er  stops, 
All  the  hot  drops, 

I  would  enjoy. 


TO  A    COQUETTE.  185 

But  I  am  worn 
Drenched,  and  grief-torn 
Longing  for  morn 

So  I  will  creep — 
Here  by  this  tomb, 
'Neath  the  oak's  gloom 
I  will  find  room, 

To  die  ...  or  sleep  .  .   . 


TO    A    COQUETTE. 

THY  beauty  stirs  a  subtle  pain 

I  breathe  with  thine  own  perfumed  air, 
As,  speechless,  mad  of  heart  and  brain 

I  fail  to  check  my  amorous  care : 
Though  wishing  it  were  stilled  and  slain. 

Should  I  rebel,  or  should  I  dare 
To  crave  thy  kisses'  unctuous  rain 

With  heartfelt  sigh,  or  truest  prayer, 
I  feel  thy  laughing  voice  would  wane  .   .   , 

I  know  thy  wondering  glances,  gair 
Would  mark  me  like  a  scar  or  stain, 

I  could  not  brook  their  torturing  stare. 
And  I  would  be  a  brute  profane 

Should  I  by  flattery  strive  to  tear — 
One  lustrous  look  from  thee  :   oh  deign 

My  racked  and  suffering  sense  to  spare, 
Tell  me  but  once  that  thou  wouldst  fain 

With  kisses  fond,  with  titles  fair 


1 86  LINES    TO  A    CORPSE. 

Destroy  the  mordant,  jealous  bane 

My  heart  can  find  no  strength  to  bear ! 
For  why  should  my  proud  wish,  inane 

If  so  it  be,  not  win  and  share 
The  bliss  of  love  with  thee,  and  gain 

Those  carnal  joys,  so  rich  and  rare  ? 
But  no,  thou  let'st  me  plead  in  vain 

Thou  gaily  mockest  my  despair, 
But  dost  thou  think  I  will  remain 

Ever  as  true  as  I  declare  ? 
Coquette  take  heed,  use  less  disdain 

Coquette  take  heed,  think  well,  beware  ! 


LINES    TO    A    CORPSE. 

MUTE  pallid  mass  of  withering  flesh  inert, 

Thou  know'st  the  secret  that  I  fain  would  learn. 

Thy  useless  carcass  doth  no  longer  burn 
With  thy  flown  soul's  rich  vivid  warmth:  alert 
It  soars  in  spheres  unknown,  unchecked,  unhurt, 

The  sweets  of  which  the  body  cannot  earn. 
If  that  soul  can  perceive,  which  I  assert 

How  must  it  loathe  thy  ugliness,  and  spurn 
Thy  purple  putrid  swollen  breast  of  dirt, 
Wherein  each  avid  worm  awaits  its  turn  .... 

Yea !  till  it  sickens,  with  hot  tears  of  pain 
It  hovers  o'er  thy  shrouds  with  jealous  care 
It  lingers  in  thy  coffin's  cryptish  air 

Although  to  seek  a  purer  realm  'twould  fain. 


SONNET.  187 

It  waits  on  noiseless  wings  till  thou  hast  lain 
In  rotting  rest  for  months,  till  gaunt  and  bare 

Thy  decomposing  bones  have  cloyed  the  drain 
Of  Earth's  absorbing,  till  thy  vital  share 

By  occult  changes  serves  the  world  again 

Till  mildew,  rust  and  muck  once  more  are  fair. 

Then  when  some  full-blown  rose  in  after  days 

Upon  thy  tombstone's  mound  brings  forth  its  red — 
Rich  beauty :  which  by  thy  foul  carrion  fed, 

Bloomed  from  its  essence  in  mysterious  ways 

Up  to  the  genial  warmth  of  sunnier  rays. 
Thy  weary  wandering  soul  forgets  its  dread, 

And  to  the  Maker  chaunting  spirit  lays, 
Infuses  love  upon  thy  fragrant  head 

Mingles  itself  and  blends  with  thee — and  prays 
To  One  who  brings  to  life  what  once  was  dead. 


SONNET. 

DEEP  in  the  claustral  glooms  of  pillared  aisles 

I  wandered  to  tempt  calm :  Toledo  slept. 
Its  grand  cathedral,  lit  by  pearl-pale  smiles — 

From  stars, — mused  with  the   night,  while  o'er  it 

crept — 
Grey  waves  of  shadows,  as  I  hushed  my  guiles 

And,  at  the  virgin's  altar  knelt,  and  wept; — 
Wept  o'er  my  deep  wild  thoughts,  o'er  wishful  wiles, 

O'er  sins  that  mocked  my  strength,  o'er  sins  that 
slept  .... 


188  MOSAIC. 

For  hours  strove  I  to  still  the  brutal  yearn 
That  urged  me  to  betray  thy  youth,  and  spurn 
Thy  love  immaculate  for  fleshy  pain, 

But  even  at  the  shrine  of  martyred  Christ 
The  flowers  of  vice  within  me  bloomed  again, 

Hell  was  my  God — and  Hell  thy  soul  enticed. 


MOSAIC. 

I  HAVE  seen  in  my  magical  dreams, — 
Of  colorful  days  and  of  nights ; 

A  ravishing  vista  of  gleams, 

Of  glamours,  of  reds,  and  of  whites. 

A  landscape  in  Aidens  unknown, 
A  scene  to  bewilder  the  eye : 

Where  a  sun  of  fire  topazes  shone — 
Through  a  glimmering  sapphire  sky. 

In  those  luminous  realms  of  space, 
Clouds  of  opal  soared  suavely  by, 

And  reflected  their  smiling  grace, 
In  a  sea  of  turquoise  dye. 

On  an  agate  and  jasper  shore 

The  waves  darted  pearls  in  spray, 

And  the  melody  of  their  roar 
Swelled  in  gems  of  iris  ray. 


.  MOSAIC.  189 

Lofty  mountains  of  malachite 
Rose  beyond  all  crowned  in  mist, 

Clear,  diaphanous,  gair  and  bright, 
Like  a  molten  amethyst ! 

And  their  violet  tips  illumed 

A  forest  of  emerald  leaves, 
Where  small  ruby  flowers  perfumed 

The  twilights  of  dazzling  eves. 

On  the  porphyry  branches  sung 

Wee  birds  with  a  grace  untold, 
Diamond-eyed  and  with  garnet  tongue, 

With  feathers  of  burnished  gold  ! 

And  each  atom  was  diadem, 

And  when  night  upon  all  set 
The  moon  like  a  giant  gem, 

Shone  white  through  a  sea  of  jet ! 

And  banks  of  coral  I  saw, 

And  amber  and  lapis  and  pearls, 
And  crystal  lakes  virgin  of  flaw 

That  revelled  in  scintillant  whirls. 

When  the  sun  was  declining,  its  hue 

With  the  golds  and  the  greens  would  blend, 

And  the  fusing  of  all  with  blue, 
Seemed  like  rainbows  without  end  ! 

But  amidst  all  these  marvels  of  worth, 

In  this  world  of  precious  stone, 
There  was  naught  to  recall  our  Earth 

But  one  thing  and  that  alone — 


190 


CHARLES  BAUDELAIRE. 

On  an  emerald  twig  o'erhead 

Perched  a  beautiful  snow-white  dove, 
'Twas  the  soul  of  Marie  now  dead, 

Marie  whom  I  used  to  love ! 


CHARLES    BAUDELAIRE. 

GIANT  of  fancies  grand,  sun-perfumed  soul ! 

Thy  bubbling  thoughts  held  revel  in  thy  brain ; 

Thy  songs  of  sorrows  sad,  mistrusts  and  pain 
In  rhythmic  harmonies  forever  roll. 
Thy  spirit-muse  sought  out  the  vivid  whole 

Of  vast  conceits  :  it  spurned  all  tare,  while  grain, 

Sweet  grain,  of  wondrous  sweetness  by  it  lain 
Proves  that  thy  soaring  soul  attained  its  goal. 

Thou  king  of  voyellous  words,  of  puissant  rhyme, 

Thy  clear  eye  saw  beyond  all  Night,  all  Time, 
Yet  have  thy  regal  musings  left  no  trace. 

Dead,  thou  art  still  ignored — no  welcome  nod 
Acclaims  thy  ghost ;  few  knew  thy  name  or  face 

Thou  of  all  poets  who  could  speak  with  God  ! 


THE    YUNGFRAU. 

MAGNET  of  ice!  white-eyed,  supreme,  immense! 

Thy  grand  imperial  whitenesses  of  awe — 

Blur  all  my  songful  thought,  and  potent,  draw- 
Into  thy  bosom's  glooms  my  wandering  sense ; 
Rapt  by  the  sheen  diaphanous,  intense 

Of  thy  white  virgin  beauty,  free  of  flaw. 

Thy  stiff  cold  tears  of  sdain  that  never  thaw 
All  promise  death  as  choicest  recompense 
To  me,  if  I  but  cling  to  thee  and  climb 
Thy  giant  breasts  of  frosts,  thy  flanks  of  rime, 
Or  scale  thy  treacherous  steeps  to  topmost  peaks 

And  brave  thy  avalanche's  dreaded  flow! 
Then  shall  I  find  what  all  my  body  seeks, 

A  tomb  subKme  in  seas  of  endless  snow ! 


191 


AN     ANSWER. 

A  studio — a  smouldering  fire — shelves  of  books — dead 
light — a  table  covered  with  volumes,  manuscripts, 
chemical  instruments,  etc. 

A  STUDENT. 

OH  wondrous  mysteries  of  Art  and  Lore, 

I  shrink  beneath  your  mightiness,  in  pain — 
Of  mental  sweets  :  while  all  I  still  ignore 

Vast  worlds  of  subtle  thought  that  flee  my  brain, 
Deride  with  virgin  stubbornness,  a  soul — 

O'erflusht  with  science :  while  a  frenzied  ken 
Chafes  to  attain  a  thinker's  cherished  goal, 

And  learn  all  things  unknown  to  other  men.   .   . 

I  strive  and  toil  in  vain,  eye-worn  and  sick — 

Of  shadowy  prose  veiling  an  occult  theme. 
I  long  to  feel  a  genial  blood  flow  thick — 

Through  all  my  thought-cowed  body,  in  a  stream 
Of  roused  and  virile  joyfulness,  to  purge 

A  torpid  maze  of  thinkings:   but  alas! 
I  lack  a  will  such  buoyancy  to  urge, 

Much  had  I  better  count  the  hours  that  pass. 

An  arid  pleasure  find  I,  when  the  sound — 
Nervous,  recurrent,  of  my  clock  I  hear. 

When  link  by  link,  the  chain  of  hours  unwound 
Clings  with  its  rhythmed  sameness  on  my  ear. 
192 


AN  ANSWER.  193 

The  solemn  warner  oft  unthanked,  relieves — 
Oppressing  silence  ;  harbinger  of  woe, 

And  cheers  a  mind,  which  anguish-stricken  grieves, 
Boiling  to  speed  its  never  hast'ning  flow — 

What  in  huge  dusty  volumes  have  I  learnt 

To  draw  the  color  to  my  palsied  cheek? 
To  ease  my  aches  of  heart,  cark-stifled,  burnt 

By  furious  gloat  for  fame ;  by  musings  weak? 
What  in  the  vaguenesses  of  Copt  or  Zend 

Have  I  solved,  that  unriddled  could  beguile 
Or  please  my  fancy,  when  the  brutal  end 

Brought  but  the  pleasure  of  a  sceptic  smile? 
"Nebulous  secrets  of  old  Arab  skill, 

Runes  of  the  Northern  clime  so  oddly  formed, 
Maxims  and  legend-flowers  culled  from  Motril, 

When  on  the  Spanish  coast  the  Moslem  swarmed — 
Marvels  and  glories  of  the  Eastern  lands, 

Tales  of  chill  Ukraine's  steppes  in  mystic  sense, 
Echoes  of  Khiva's  turrets,  Egypt's  sands, 

Have  ye  e'er  caused  me  such  a  joy  immense — 
As  when  I  watched  the  blonden  moonbeams  play 

In  lustrous  streams  of  light  upon  the  sea, 
Blending  their  argent  shadows  with  the  spray 

Cresting  the  rugged  cliffs  in  watery  glee"  ?  .  . 
But  now  e'en  that  joy  sickens  :   Nature's  charms 

Cannot  allure  by  planets  or  by  flowers, 
Withered  by  all  the  world's  deceitful  harms, 

Spurn  I  a  faith  in  God's  assuaging  powers. 
Stolid  and  worn,  in  studies  rapt,  I  dreamt — 

A  surcease  of  pale  chagrin  I  could  find — 
But  fashioned  wiser,  view  I  with  contempt 

The  verbose  fodder  crunched  to  feast  my  mind. 
17* 


194 


AN  ANSWER. 


AN  ANGEL. 

Nay,  youngling,  say  not  so,  for  time 

Has  proven  clement :   and  thy  years 
Count  not  as  yet  a  mortal's  prime. 

Why  shouldst  thou  tire  of  life,  that  cheers — 
When  ably  tasted  :  and  when  spent 

In  noble  toilings  as  thou  hast — 
Nursing  repose  and  calm  content 

Surely  thy  joys  are  joys  that  last  ! 

STUDENT. 

'Tis  false,  they  queme  me  not — my  brain  afire, 
Is  goaded  by  their  temptings  to  aspire — 
To  spheres  of  thought  above  : — beyond  my  reach. 
Which  no  dry  tome  or  parchment  can  e'er  teach. 
My  rhapsodies  are  boundless,  and  my  flight — 
Of  fancies  soars  through  chaos  and  through  night, 
Until  my  will,  too  frail,  pain-checked,  is  crushed, 
By  powers  unknown,  and  all  its  fevers  hushed.   .   . 

ANGEL. 

Student,  art  rash  !  and  shouldst  not  strive 
Thy  feeble  ponderings  to  drive — 
Beyond  the  limits  drawn  for  man 
By  sapient  hands  on  Earth  to  span. 
Rest  thee  awhile :  or  else  in  Love.  .   .   . 
Mayst  find  the  key  to  bliss  above. 


AN  ANSWER.  195 


STUDENT. 

Speak  riot  of  Love,  fair  vision,  I  implore. 

I  dreamt  its  pangs  I  felt — but  now  ignore 

Its  every  meaning  : — though  that  myth  I  blessed 

When,  vain,  elated  loon,  I  first  caressed 

A  demon,  seraph-faced,  of  maddening  form, 

Whose  hot,  wet,  Hell-drugged  kisses,  lava-warm, 

With  am'rous  velvet  touchings,  to  my  core — 

Stung;  with  such  joy-lost  fervor,  that  if  more 

And  more  of  this  soul-wavering  delight 

She  had  refused,  I  would  by  passion's  might 

Have  strangled  out  caresses  from  her  breath — 

And  would  have  burnt  them  kiss-scorcht  into  Death. 

Why  did  I  not — a  budding  love  I  gave 

To  her  already  tainted  grip  : — a  slave — 

To  her  one,  every  wish  was  I;  but  when, 

In  webbed  ardors  welded  fiercely,  then — 

The  traitrous  siren  loved  me — /  was  all, 

Her  God  and  Universe — and  she  the  thrall ! 

And  yet,  with  elfen  subtlety,  this  maid 

My  love  of  loves  with  infamy  betrayed, 

I  could  not  kill  her — for  my  dirk  atilt, 

Sank  in  her  gallant's  weasand  to  the  hilt : 

And  ere  the  reeking  blade  I  had  withdrawn 

To  spill  her  lying  blood — the  wench  had  gone ! 

But  now  my  heart  is  ironed  and  free  of  grief, 

And  that  is  why  I  sneer  at  Love's  belief  1 


1 9 6  AN  ANSWER. 


ANGEL. 

Thou  shouldst  have  pardoned  since,  when  time  and 

years 

Have  stilled  the  torrent  of  thy  jaundiced  tears. 
What  whim  unslaked,  gnaweth  thy  nettled  breast, 
That  stayeth  heart's  repose,  that  checketh  rest? 
If  love  is  quenched  the  envious  tide  runs  deep. 
What  are  thy  evil  aims  at  night,  when  sleep — 
By  febrile  recollections  baulked,  has  lost 
Its  soothing  power — when,  on  thy  pillow  tossed, 
The  hours  seem  ages,  and  the  slumber  sought 
Unnerves  and  deadens  every  wish  peace-fraught? 
Can  it  be  hate  that  grimes  thy  sleepless  eves 
With  foul-mouthed  yearn,  and  does  the  web  it  weaves 
Of  honeyed  promise,  ravel  in  thy  mind 
A  knot  of  vengeance  arduous  to  unwind  ? 

STUDENT. 

No,  no,  fair  vision,  my  erst  hates  have  flown, 
My  ires  by  toils  have  dumb  and  callous  grown  : 
Hate  is  a  useless  passion,  twin  to  crime 
So  deem  I — but  when  young  it  is  sublime 
To  hate,  while  every  fibre  thrills  a  frame 
Rabid  with  haughty  rage — alas,  too  tame 
And  vimless  now  !  its  sting  can  never  vex 
A  soul  impassible  to  life's  sad  wrecks. 
For,  if  its  virus  foul  could  drop  by  drop, 
•  Ooze  in  my  heart,  my  poisoned  thought  would  stop — 
And  counteract  its  bitterness  by  gall, 
That  direr  venom,  servant  to  my  call ! 


AN  ANSWER. 


197 


ANGEL. 

Thy  speech  is  odious,  and  thy  rattling  tongue 
Prateth  'gainst  reason  ;  but  I  know  thee  young — 
And  not  devoid  of  feeling,  thou  canst  yet 
All  woman's  wrongs  to  thee,  and  men's  forget. 
Thy  heart  is  warm,  beneath  an  algid  pride, 
Its  olden  flame  will  flicker,  and  a  guide — 
In  me  wilt  find ;  whose  counsel  will  uphold 
And  strengthen  debile  faith — hope-guarded,  bold, 
Thou  shouldst  essay  a  glorious  end  to  claim, 
For  with  thy  innate  genius,  wealth  and  fame, 
Those  all-prized  treasures  will  thy  trophies  be, 
And  such  a  lot,  depends  .   .   . 

STUDENT. 

On  whom  ? — 

ANGEL. 

— On  thee. 

STUDENT. 

Cherub,  thy  cautioning  cannot  avail, 

I  come  of  no  foul,  rotten  stock,  to  wail — 

And  sorrow  for  ambition's  sweet,  or  pine 

To  hear  the  world's  opinion  on  a  line 

Or  phrasing  that  I  pen,  for  I  prefer 

To  sip  my  life-cup's  mingled  wine  and  myrrh, 

In  silence,  and  from  all  the  world  conceal, 

The  passions  and  emotions  that  I  feel. 


198  AN  ANSWER. 

Call'st  thou  ambitious  one  who  greeds  to  rule 
A  horde  of  savage  soldiers  armed  in  steel, 
Who  straggle  to  the  fray  as  would  a  mule 
Kicked  at  and  battered  by  his  master's  heel? 
Deem'st  thou  ambitious  he  whose  subjects  bleed 
And  perish  by  his  orders,  on  a  field 
Where  belching  cannon,  deaf  to  race  or  creed, 
Vomit  their  terrors  till  the  foemen  yield  ? 
Deem'st  thou  ambitious  one  in  pomp  arrayed 
With  slaves  and  cohorts  at  his  erst  command, 
One  who  is  wealthy-pursed  and  strong  of  blade, 
One  whose  omnipotence  awes  sea  and  land  ? 
If  so,  he  lacketh  reason,  less  his  life 
Be  one  of  leniency ;  for  tyrants'  sleep 
Is  sad  and  fatal,  and  a  rancorous  knife 
Can  sound  the  infamy  of  hearts  most  deep. 

ANGEL. 

Thy  soul  is.  gelid  to  emotion,  and 

Thy  dogged  will,  by  listlessness  unmanned, 

Spurns  that  which  other  men  would  die  to  gain. 

Surely  art  born  of  flesh,  thou  dreadest  pain, 

Thou  hast  a  love,  a  hate,  a  pride  or  fear, 

Some  woful  loss  has  blighted  thy  career. 

Has  lack  of  care  and  fondness  made  thee  mad  ? 

STUDENT. 

No  dearth  of  true  affection  have  I  had — 

A  hidden  grief  perchance,  but  that  will  dwell 

Within  my  vitals,  till  the  heats  of  Hell — 

Burn  and  consume  it  out,  when  nerve  and  blood 

Are  dried  and  scorched  by  the  fiery  flood. 


AN  ANSWER. 


A  PHANTOM. 

Valiantly  spoken,  youth — I  know  thy  need. 

Thou  gloar'st  for  gold — thy  fantasy  to  lead 

In  paths  of  luxury,  for  hadst  thou  power 

A  fortune  and  a  palace  at  this  hour 

Would  clothe  thy  limbs,  and  would  thy  head  protect, 

While  happy,  young  and  reckless,  wouldst  elect, 

And  choose  thy  mistresses,  thy  friends  and  slaves, 

Rich  regal  days,  is  what  thy  notion  craves — 

STUDENT. 

Spirit,  thou  liest — naught  of  gold  I  ask — 

I  am  no  wizard  with  a  baffling  mask 

Screening  a  secret  in  each  blear  dull  eye, 

All  I  demand  is,  as  the  days  roll  by — 

Leaving  me  tranquil  in  my  bitter  gloom 

To  muse  on  thoughts  oft-weighed,  of  after  tomb. 

Gold  to  my  nature  serveth  not — its  chink 

Sounds  dead  upon  my  ear — and  when  I  think 

How  other  fools  adore  it — then  I  laugh, 

And  titter  cynic  o'er  the  wine  I  quaff. 

What  can  I  need  of  gold  ?     To  win  a  friend  ? 

A  man  who  follows  me,  until  I  spend 

The  last  cursed  farthing,  and  who  will  declare 

That  although  generous  I  was  hard  to  bear, 

Full  of  strange  whims,  proud,  spiteful  and  perverse, 

Simply  'cause  he  had  naught  and  I  the  purse? 

Nay,  nay,  no  metal  can  e'er  buy  the  scene 

I  built  in  dreams — a  landscape  autumn-green, 

High  lofty  mountains,  tipped  with  nitid  snow 

Tinted  by  purple  heavens — and,  below, 


200  AN  ANSWER. 

A  cot,  white,  simple,  hidden  by  a  ring 
Of  firs  and  poplars,  where  the  wood-larks  sing 
And  purl  their  joyful  hymns  when  sunbeams  stream 
Upon  the  rustling  foliage  : — that  my  dream 
Has  been,  but  now,  has  faded — chased  by  cark, 
Leaving  me  Life,  abhorrent — blank  and  dark. 

CHORUS  OF  ANGELS. 

On  banks  of  flowers, 
The  summer  hours 

Invite  sweet  sleep. 
In  dreams  of  charm — 
Thy  soul  from  harm — 
And  evil  powers, 

Our  wings  will  keep. 

STUDENT. 

I  need  no  sleep  ! 

CHORUS  OF  DEMONS. 

On  lakes  of  fire, 
In  regions  dire 

With  us  wilt  roam  ? 
In  seas  of  flame — 
Thy  soul  can  claim — 

Its  mute  desire, 
With  sylph  and  gnome. 

STUDENT. 

I  need  no  home  ! 


AN  ANSWER.  201 


PHANTOM. 

I  wis  thy  greed,  a  riot,  hot  embrace 

From  lips  of  rose — a  lust-paled,  upturned  face 

With  luring  eyes,  thine  eyes'  strong  glance  to  pierce, 

Tempests  of  sighs  to  quell  in  torpors  fierce. 

A  silken  forest  of  blonde  curls  to  toss 

And  tangle  round  thy  fingers,  till  its  gloss — 

Gair,  yellow  and  exciting,  tempt  thy  whim 

In  prurient  ecstasies  to  plunge  and  swim, 

As  when  the  sea-gull,  cresting  o'er  the  wave 

Dotes  on  its  bosom's  foam,  wherein  to  lave 

Its  fruitless  passion,  while  its  plaintive  shriek 

Implores  a  fickle  love  till  wings  are  weak. 

STUDENT. 

Spirit  a  parnel's  hug  I  cherish  not 

A  strumpet  markets  out  her  body's  rot 

And  plays  her  foulest  comedy  to  prove 

An  absent  passion  :   can  such  mockery  move 

A  man  to  hanker  for  her  venomed  press, 

And  pay  with  gold,  the  gall  of  her  caress  ? 

Think'st  thou  for  such  pale  drazels  I  would  leave 

My  fire  and  room,  and  lecherous  I  would  grieve 

And  blubber  like  a  stripling  for  a  whore 

The  trifle  of  a  hundred  rakes  before? 

CHORUS  OF  ANGELS. 

The  sunbeams  spread 
Their  fulgor  red 

On  grove  and  wood : 

18 


202  AN  ANSWER. 

All  Nature  sings 
Of  God  all  things 
Below,  o'erhead, 
Are  fair  and  good. 

CHORUS  OF  DEMONS. 

The  twilight  falls, 
Our  Master  calls, 

His  voice  through  night 
Resoundeth  shrill, 
Art  stubborn  still, 
What  fear  appals  ? 

O  !  haste  thy  flight. 

STUDENT. 

What  I  loved  most  was  Color,  for  my  eye 

By  varied  tints  and  hues  of  Nature's  dye 

Grew  ravished  :     When  the  blinding  sky-blue  pours 

Its  sheen  immaculate  on  reed-clad  shores,     * 

The  lucid  water  toucht  with  fulvid  streams 

Of  golden  splendor,  sun-kisst,  glows  and  gleams. 

Each  bubbling  ripple,  white  as  lady's  hand 

Dashes,  pearled,  plastic  on  the  hot  red  sand 

Of  some  broad  beach,  with  shells  and  alga  sprent 

Green,  brown,  blue,  yellow,  strangely  blent! 

And  oh  !  what  velvet  tints  the  elm-tree's  bark 

Rugose  and  gnarry,  taketh,  when  the  spark 

Of  fire-flies'  nacarat  twinkling  lumes  the  trunk 

When  on  huge  curving  boughs,  the  linnets,  drunk — 

With  gracious  melody,  chirp,  purl  and  trill 

From  downy  throatlets,  till  their  voices  fill 


203 


AN  ANSWER. 

The  silent  wood,  while  bird  and  leaf  and  rush 
Await  that  sacred  hour,  when,  white  of  flush 
The  prying  moon — mist-dotted,  vapor-ploughed, 
Escapes  from  'neath  its  drapery  of  cloud, 
And  deluges  the  forest  in  its  grace : 
While,  slumb'ring  near,  the  artist's  placid  face 
Pale,  by  moon  paler,  dreams  and  loves  and  lives 
By  Color's  power,  and  all  the  bliss  it  gives — 

ANGEL. 

In  all  thy  roamings  hast  thou  had  no  gust, 

No  like  or  no  distemper,  taste  or  trust? 

Hast  thou  in  God's  grand  temples  prayed  or  knelt, 

Hast  thou  e'er  piety  within  thee  felt  ? 

When,  in  the  Mosque  or  Kirk  the  rites  began 

WThen  quivering  voices  begged  that  sins  of  man 

Would  lessen — ?  did  no  inner  chord  awake 

Proud  and  triumphant,  noble?  didst  not  make 

Some  resolution,  didst  thy  doubt  repent 

Its  sluggishness,  didst  clamor  to  give  vent 

In  virile  action  to  thy  backward  life  .  .  .  ? 

STUDENT. 

No  thought  as  this  was  in  my  bosom  rife. 

All  I  enjoyed  with  ravish,  was  the  grace 

Of  Titian's  glowing  virgins,  and  their  face 

One,  only  face  all-holy,  filled  my  heart 

With  sweets  seraphic,  and  would  ease  the  smart — 

Of  terrene  unbelief: — as  long  I  gazed 

Upon  his  glorious  painting,  color-crazed. 

But  then  I  thought  I  loved  him,  and  no  love — 

On  Earth,  or  Hell  below,  and  Heaven  above 


204 


AN  ANSWER. 


Rivals  the  contemplation  of  the  Art 
Of  Italy's  great  masters  : — why  depart 
From  such  care-calming  worship? — who  can  paint 
Christ  livid,  crucified,  with  halo  faint 
Around  a  thorn-crowned  brow  like  Reni's  hand, 
What  is  more  vivid,  truthful,  pious,  grand — 
Of  horror  ?  and  of  colors  blent — the  sponge 
Seems  sour  and  swollen :  see  !  the  soldiers  lunge 
'Their  barbed  spears  deep  in  the  withered  flesh 
Do  not  lorn  Mary's  tears  fall  all  afresh? 
Murillo,  angel-haunted,  wields  the  gift 
Visions  of  grace  from  heavenly  clouds  to  lift. 
His  mild  Madonna  glance,  true,  pure  and  bright 
Equals  the  stars'  in  brilliancy  of  light — 
Only  a  light  of  glory,  made  to  bless 
A  light  of  mercy  no  pale  orbs  possess  .... 
Rubens,  of  florid  touch  becharmed  me  oft, 
His  wealthy-bosomed  sirens,  sinewed  soft 
Denoting  strength  and  suppleness  combined, 
Have  magnetized  my  willing  eye  and  mind. 
Van  Dyck,  with  tints  of  gloom,  has  fashioned  forms 
Alluring  by  their  verity  ;  while  swarms 
Of  chimeras,  and  visions,  quaintly  odd 
Besiege  the  memory,  while  dark  portraits  nod 
Their  wrinkled  heads,  closed  in  the  massive  frame 
And  wink  triumphant  on  the  signer's  name. 
Rembrandt,  sad  shadows,  altars  and  a  pyx  ! 
The  horrent  splendors  of  the  crucifix  ! 
Portraits,  and  heads,  bald,  bearded — joy  and  woe 
Toucht  wi^h  a  glow  of  winter's  rime  and  snow. 
Watteau  !  light,  fickle  airy  whims  of  oil 
A  ball's  coquette,  a  revelry's  turmoil 


AN  ANSWER. 


205 


Silk,  satin,  ribbons,  flowers  and  powdered  hair 
A  court,  a  garden,  moonbeams  here  and  there; 
Wigged,  sworded  courtiers,  held  'twixt  love  and  fight 
The  whole  depicted,  half  in  pink,  half  white  ! 
Steen,  with  his  simple  brush  has  quemed  me  vast, 
When,  gay  of  mind,  I  sought  to  rouse  the  past 
Of  Holland's  dorps,  and  view  his  village  scenes: 
A  burgomeister  on  a  table  leans — 
Within  a  cabin  clean  as  falling  flakes. 
A  kitten  by  the  fire  its  naplet  takes — 
Upon  the  floor,  plump  peach-cheeked  children  play 
Near  by,  the  buxom  housewife  knits  away 
While,  o'er  a  pewter  tankard,  cool  with  beer 
The  father  smiles  upon  the  ones  so  dear  .  .  . 
Ah  pass  !  that  paint  brought  tears:  grim  Goya's  muse 
Other  far  ghastlier  dyes  was  wont  to  use. 
Th'  Escurial  sombre  in  its  stony  vale, 
Peopled  within  its  crypt  by  spectres  pale. 
Blood-clotted  pools — wan  eyes  and  haggard  looks, 
Clouds  grey  as  twilight — black-rimmed  :   rooks — 
Gaunt  ravens,  shades  of  sorrow,  rotting  bones, 
The  shriek  of  maiden  ravished,  and  the  groans 
Of  tortured  martyrs  ;  marshes,  fenny-dank 
Hoidens  with  giggling  jaws — the  iron  clank 
Of  gyves  rust-eaten,  bull-fights,  gore  and  fire 
Naught  save  the  noxious,  horrent,  and  the  dire. 
Fantastic  Ribera  would  oft  unhinge 
The  bolts  of  fear-barred  thought — and  tinge 
His  pallid  corpses  with  that  bluish  touch 
That  fills  th'  expectant  worm  within  with  grutch  : 
His  cult  was  ugliness :   the  master's  hand 
From  horrors  brought  forth  Beauty  at  command, 
1 8* 


2;6  AN  ANSWER. 

Beauty  victorious  in  some  bleeding  Christ, 
Beauty  all  potent  in  his  Death  unpriced  ! 
Now,  Color  as  my  other  loves,  submerged — 
In  waves  of  listlessness,  by  mind-rods  scourged, 
Cannot  e'en  to  a  moment's  joy  give  birth 
I  live  indifferent  to  its  charm  and  worth, 
And  no  oil-dabbled  picture  chaste  or  lewd 
Can  tempt  me  back  unto  the  muse  I  wooed  .  .  . 

ANGEL. 

Pagan  of  hardened  fancies :  canst  thou  sneer 
E'en  at  thy  stage  of  unbelief,  when  ear 
And  soul  are  captured  by  some  gentle  strain 
Of  soothing  melody  ?  hear'st  thou  again 
Without  a  throb  of  feeling  tunes  that  rocked 
Thy  infant  form  to  slumber?  hast  thou  mocked 
With  senseless  tongue  the  balm  of  Music's  power, 
That  abstract  love,  by  gods  bequeathed  as  dower  ? 
Hath  thy  heart  fluttered  when  the  church-bell's  chimes 
Rang  out  their  brazen  wealth  of  holy  rhymes?        •  | 
Has  not  the  organ's  mellow,  measured  voice, 
Ever  an  accent  found  to  please  thy  choice  ? 

STUDENT. 

Angel,  the  tunes  of  olden  time  bring  back 

Hosts  of  harmonious  sorrows — sad  and  black — 

As  envy :   my  imprisoned  thoughts  unbound 

Once  more,  and  free,  drink  up  their  well-known  sound : 

But  then  I  sudden  veer,  and  flee  them  fast 

Cursing  the  tell-tale  memories  of  the  past. 

The  music  of  my  simmering  thoughts  console 

My  wretchedness,  and  with  my  grief  condole 


AN  ANSWER. 


207 


A  music  vague  and  sombre — born  of  tears, 

A  music  grave  and  sad  : — a  phantom  leers 

Over  each  chosen  note,  and  terrifies 

My  soul  quiescent  as  the  Hell-sounds  rise. 

Weber  alone — grim  thinker — was  inspired 

From  worlds  most  nebulous — for  he  admired 

The  strident  meanings  of  the  German  night, 

Seas  of  strange  melody,  so  wild  of  fright 

In  all  their  magic  rhythms,  new  and  bold, 

Teeming  with  weirdities  of  style  untold. 

He  of  all  dreamers  spoke  in  sob  and  wail 

He  of  all  dreamers  tore  the  subtle  veil 

Off  mystic  beauty,  and  disrobed  her  form 

Which  nude  was  cold,  but  by  his  kissings  warm 

Grew  docile  and  her  secret  wealth  laid  bare 

To  one  who  sought  the  music  of  the  Air — 

The  leaflet's  whirr,  the  valley-streamlet's  notes, 

Sad  melodies  from  forests,  or  from  throats 

Of  night-birds  in  the  Schwarzenwald's  deep  shade 

And  who  of  all  a  mighty  concert  made — 

Puissant  of  grace,  wonder  of  sylphic  sound 

Sought  for  by  ardor,  and  by  ardor  found. 

I  understood  his  vague  mellifluous  tongue, 

My  sceptic  heart,  his  sceptic  ditties  sung, 

But  now  all  Music's  sweets  I  shun  and  mock 

And  I  prefer  the  music  of  my  clock  !  .  .  .  . 

ANGEL. 

Thou  who  avowest  life  is  hard  to  bear 
Findest  thou  transport  in  the  joy  of  prayer? 


2o8  AN  ANSWER. 

Ignorest  thou  the  raptures  of  a  soul 

Invoking  Gods  whose  mercies  can  console.   .   .   . 

STUDENT. 

Angel,  thou  temptest  me,  my  views  are  frail 
And  bottomless  of  things  terrene  :  why  fail 
In  mad  essaying  to  decipher  creeds 
The  mystic  problem  that  solution  needs 
Of  life  beyond  this  life? — can  man  assume 
To  solve  the  secrets  of  the  after  tomb  ? 
E'er  to  transfuse  the  soul  that  in  him  lives 
E'er  to  define  the  breath  his  mothe^gives? 
Science  is  vast,  and  brains  by  thought  consume, 
But  who  can  lift  the  veil  of  doubt  and  gloom 
Screening  the  phantom  future  like  a  shroud, 
Leaving  all  mortals  baffled,  foiled  and  cowed. 
I  cannot  speak 

ANGEL. 

Believest  thou  ? — 

STUDENT. 

— In  what? 

ANGEL. 

In  powers  supreme  that  fix  and  shift  thy  lot, 
That  either  wound  or  kill,  sustain,  create, 
That  rule  thy  doings,  and  command  thy  fate? 

STUDENT. 

Spirit !  a  sacrilege  thou  mayst  suspect 
But  hark  thee  !  all  religions  I  respect 


AN  ANSWER.  ?, 

As  good  and  worthy, — but  believe  in  none. 
The  bronze-skinned  savage  who  adores  the  sun, 
And  bows  before  the  flamant  eye  in  fear 
Should  not  be  scoffed  at,  if  his  voice  sincere, 
In  simple1  wordings  swelleth  out  in  prayer 
To  one  that  warms  and  feeds  him  by  its  glare. 
The  Parsees  kneeling  to  their  God  of  Fire 
Ascend  with  cheerful  steps  a  blazing  pyre 
To  perish  faithful — girt  with  strong  belief — 
Do  they  not  merit  for  their  martyred  grief 
An  envied  life  of  joys  in  other  spheres, 
As  consolation  for  their  worldly  fears  ? 
Cannot  a  noble  heart  in  Greek  or  Turk 
In  breast  of  Jew,  as  well  as  Christian  lurk  ? 
The  struts  and  splendors  of  the  Orient's  rites 
The  pageants,  jewelled  costumes,  countless  lights, 
The  wailing  dervishes  with  sandalled  feet, 
The  censers  swinging  with  their  perfumes  sweet, 
The  sumptuous  mosques,  marvels  of  Eastern  art 
The  tekkes  domed,  chiselled  in  every  part 
With  crafty  hand,  till  stone  resembles  lace, 
A  glorious  tribute,  age  cannot  efface — 
The  sensuous  music,  velvet  to  the  ear, 
Monotonous  of  rhythm,  sad,  austere, 
Yet  soul  vibrating,  mystic,  gravely  sung, 
By  throat  melodious,  and  by  fervent  tongue : 
The  stately  Imans  robed  in  white  and  blue, 
The  zaims,  defenders,  eunuchs,  retinue, 
Steel,  gold  and  glory,  pomp  immense, 
Does  not  this  speak  to  eye,  to  soul,  to  sense, 
Persuading  all  as  loud  the  muezzin  drones, 
"Allah  is  great,  Mahomet's  love  atones," 


210  AN  ANSWER. 

Should  Moslem  faith  be  jeered  at,  flouted,  cursed, 

If  not  the  best  of  creeds,  is  it  the  worst  ? 

Am  I  to  mock  the  rites  of  Manitou, 

The  power  of  Siva,  Brahma  or  Vischnu? 

The  stelled  vales  of  Delhi  and  Lahore 

Still  celebrate  their  mercies  as  of  yore. 

Why  should  we  modern  unbelievers  grin, 

And  chuckle  o'er  a  rite  we  call  a  sin? 

Quetzalcoatl's  priests  and  slaves  adored 

A  brutal  god  of  serpents,  grimed,  begored, 

While  Norseland's  brawny  warriors  sought  the  fray 

And  corse-strewn  fjelds,  to  prove  great  Odin's  sway 

Blood — crime  and  slaughter,  be  it,  but  they  fought 

And  slew  with  faith — a  faith  that  should  be  taught 

To  our  poor  shallow-minded  priests,  who  tell 

In  verbose  sermons  that  the  pains  of  Hell 

All  sinners  shall  endure,  whilst  Hell  on  Earth 

Exists  as  well  as  Paradise  from  birth — 

Their  faith  is  blind  and  loitering,  bought  by  gold 

Unwarmed  by  Nature's  charms — their  prattle  cold 

And  nine  of  ten  would  use  their  Saviour's  curse 

To  draw  a  farthing  in  their  greedy  purse.   .  .   . 

The  faith  of  chivalry,  the  art  of  Moor 

Will  to  my  fancy  greater  joys  procure 

Than  any  creed,  discussed  by  changing  whim. 

Religions'  depths  are  nebulous  and  dim, 

And  if  I  had  belief — which  I  have  not 

Shunning  all  crumbling  ages'  rust  and  rot, 

I  would  my  trust  place  in  the  world  of  art 

Speaking  to  soul,  to  spirit,  sense  and  heart. 


AN  ANSWER.  21 1 

What  faith  was  nobler  than  the  faith  of  gold 

That  spurred  the  ancient  architects,  untold — 

Unbidden,  save  by  Art's  great  voice,  to  toil 

And  spread  their  genius-seed  on  native  soil? 

Mammoth  cathedrals  built  they,  aisled  and  naved 

Columns  on  columns,  chiselled,  wrought,  engraved 

Poems  of  granite,  symphonies  of  stone  ! 

Silent  yet  soulful,  mighty,  in  the  lone — 

Vague  twilight  of  the  ages — as  they  seem 

To  stretch  their  steeples  to  a  God  supreme 

Like  two  huge  giant  hands  imploring  grace 

Far  in  the  deep  blue  densities  of  space — 

Chartres,  Antwerp,  Rheims,  of  art  the  choicest  flower 

Seville's  Giralda,  with  its  rosy  tower, 

Toledo,  Burgos  of  the  sculptured  dome — 

Cordova — Beauvais,  Strasbourg,  Sens,  and  Rome 

Moscow's  St.  Basil  with  its  zebraed  heights 

Upsala's  grandeur,  where  the  gloom  delights — 

A  pensive  muse — all  gems  of  patient  skill 

Erected  by  a  few  great  men,  whose  will 

Was  strong  as  tempests,  and  their  faith  as  strong  : 

For  well  knew  they  the  painful  work,  and  long 

They  planned,  and  that  a  century  would  pass 

Before  a  form  symmetric  graced  the  mass. 

The  bliss  of  witnessing  their  task  fulfilled 

Was  not  their  lot — they  knew  it — yet  unstilled 

Were  Faith  and  Ardor — while  the  day  they  died 

The  lofty  temple  grew  in  strength  and  pride — 

Oh  !  that  is  faith  in  art !  and  yet  the  name 

Of  those  heroic  strugglers — lost  to  fame 

Is  now  ignored,  save  by  some  monk  austere, 

Who  reads  the  church's  archives  once  a  year 

And  who  perchance  may  treasure  in  his  mind, 

The  name  of  one  who  labored  for  mankind. 


212  AN  ANSWER. 


PHANTOM. 

Art  strangely  novel,  for  thou  hast  no  quest 
No  wish,  no  covet — dream'st  thou  not  at  best 
Of  some  fair  vision,  modelled  in  thy  mind 
Of  gnomish  beauty — fulvid  eyed,  to  blind 
Thy  gaze  by  rapturous  blinkings,  green  of  tint, 
Chasms  of  smaragd  lust — of  boiling  glint 
What  need'st  thou? 

STUDENT. 

Naught. 

ANGEL. 

What  need'st  thou? 

STUDENT. 

Naught,  I  say — 

The  roseate  clouds  of  dawn  announce  the  day ; 
Spirits  of  Go,od  and  Evil,  here  I  swear 
That  naught  of  happiness,  and  naught  of  care 
Can  stir  my  lethargy  ;  my  fibres  mute 
Love  sleep  alone,  and  food,  as  would  a  brute ; 
For  having  lived  and  seen,  my  soul  is  sore, 
Mortals  may  call  me  mad,  and  vile  of  core 
But  all  I  wish — 

ANGEL. 

Well  speak  poor  heart  of  stone  ! 

STUDENT. 
All  that  I  wish  is  to  be  left  alone  !   . 


THE    FIR. 

ON  autumn  nights  I  love  to  err 

Far  in  the  Forest's  depths:   beneath — 

The  sombre  foliage  of  the  fir, 

Shading  the  verdure  of  the  heath. 

I  love  to  ponder  in  the  gloom 
And  hear  the  breezes  rustle  by : 

Breathing  their  wafts  of  sweet  perfume 
Scenting  the  starry  domes  of  sky. 

Long  russet  leaves  all  dry  and  sere 
Crackle  beneath  my  idle  tread, 

The  crisp  soft  sound  delights  my  ear 
The  sound  of  tears  the  firs  have  shed  ! 

The  knarry  oak,  the  slender  pine, 

The  frowning  cedar's  ghastly  shade — 

All  lend  a  subtle  charm  divine 
My  dreamy  senses  to  pervade. 

Each  dew-steeped  flow' ret  seems  to  smile 
Revealing  scented  worlds  of  bliss 

In  each  pied  chalice's  profile, 

When  quivering  'neath  the  rush's  kiss. 
19  213 


214 


THE  FIR. 

The  nimble  squirrel  spooms  in  fear 
Before  my  steps  with  plaintive  moan, 

The  thrushes'  trilling  voices  near 

Blend  with  the  lively  cricket's  drone. 

I  love  the  vast  and  mighty  scene 
I  love  the  fire-fly's  mystic  light. 

Piercing  with  twinkling  smaragdine — 
The  opaque  shroud  of  ombred  night. 

But,  when  the  moonbeam's  lustre  blonde 
Streams  down  in  lambent  tides  of  glare, 

My  pulsing  heart-chords  soft  respond 
My  eyes  gloar  wildly  in  the  air. 

Gauze-clad  and  sylphic,  'fore  my  gaze 
Sweet  chimera  of  youth  and  grace, — 

Floats  like  a  milky  opal's  blaze 
An  airy  form  with  pallid  face. 

Face!  form!  like  Dolci's  virgins:  save — 
The  silv'ry  whiteness  of  the  breast 

Where  sphered  twins  seem  e'er  to  crave 
The  dainties  of  a  riot  rest. 

I  by  this  dazzling  sight  revive 
And  burn  to  murmur  all  my  love, 

I  cannot  stir  ....  in  vain  I  strive — 
The  phantom  frail  still  soars  above. 

Caressing  spirals  of  soft  light 
Emerge;  at  ev'ry  flamant  gyre 

The  cruel  dryad  draws  through  night, 
My  witched  passion  to  inspire. 


THE   SUCCUBE. 

The  nacreous  spirit  fades  away 

Encircled  by  the  moonlet's  beam 
******** 
Black  night  dawn-mingled,  shuns  the  day 
I  wake:  the  vision  is  a  dream  ! 

And  that  is  why  I  love  to  err 

Far  in  the  Forest's  depths  :  beneath 

The  sombre  foliage  of  the  fir 

Shading  the  verdure  of  the  heath — 

And  that  is  why  when  I  am  dead 

I  wish  to  slumber  in  a  tomb, 
Where  fir-leaves  rustle  o'er  my  head, 

Where  at  my  feet  wild  daisies  bloom. 


THE    SUCCUBE. 

THOU  Succube  with  opal  eyes  dreaming, 

Thou  ghoul  of  a  ravishing  form; 
Thou  siren  with  mysteries  teeming, 

Thy  kissings  were  splendid  and  warm  ! 
The  glare  of  thine  eyes  and  their  gleaming — 

Caused  passions  to  hover  and  swarm. 

Thou  wert  lavish  oh  temptress  of  kisses, 

Of  kisses  far  sweeter  than  wine ; 
There  was  Death  in  our  joys  and  our  blisses, 

With  a  shroud  didst  my  love-life  entwine, 
And  thy  hot  tongue  hell-cloven  of  hisses, 

Pierced  a  heart  that  was  mine  and  was  thine. 


2i 6  THE  SUCCUBE. 

'Neath  the  sting  of  thy  love  have  I  cowered 
A  love  that  breathed  death  at  each  sigh  : 

Broken,  wearied,  I  prayed  thee,  o'erpowered, 
To  avert  thy  black  luminous  eye — 

The  caresses  thy  burning  lips  showered 
Were  false,  yet  I  knew  not  their  guy  ! 

Thou  wert  sanctioned  by  demons  to  kill  me, 
To  cloy  me  with  sweetness  and  joys  : 

Thou  wert  bidden  to  glut  and  o'erfill  me, 
With  the  sound  of  thy  ravishing  voice  ; 

Thou  wert  ordered  to  chill  me  and  thrill  me 
With  thy  kissings'  soft  murmurous  noise. 

And  I  found  that  thy  body  was  rotten, 
I  found  that  thine  eye  hid  no  tear: 

I  learned  that  thy  heart  had  forgotten, 
Every  tie  that  was  holy  and  dear ; 

I  found  that  thy  brain  was  begotten — 
In  sin,  and  a  sluttish  career. 

So  I  know  thee  and  all  my  thought- arrows 
A  target  will  make  of  thine  heart : 

I  will  send  thee  a  cursing  that  harrows 
I  will  make  thee  more  hellish  than  art ! 

And  the  sting  of  my  hates  in  thy  marrows, 
Will  burn  thee  with  splendors  of  smart  ! 


DIALOGUE. 

IN  gloomful  crypts  most  tenebrous,  below — 
The  granite  arching  of  a  vaulted  tomb, 

Imbedded  in  the  dark  dead  dirt,  where  flow — 
The  dank  cloacas  of  the  earth's  vast  womb ; 

Down  where  no  atom  of  pale  light  can  glow, 
Where  morbid  miasms  rise,  of  rank  perfume, 

Hewn  of  the  tough  and  nodous  larch-trees'  wood 

Two  mammoth  open  coffins  upright  stood — 

Within,  two  skeletons  lay  firmly  prest — 
By  rusty  clasps  of  rugged  iron  in  bands, 

Two  slime-gnawed  skulls,  perhaps  by  final  quest 
Hung  loosely  swinging  ;  while  four  bony  hands 

Were  crossed  and  nailed  upon  each  ghastly  breast, 
Seeming  to  supplicate  with  vague  demands — 

While  oozing  from  the  stone  arch  of  the  crypt, 

Great  drops  of  foulest  water  soihvard  dripped. 

Brother,  said  one,  here  have  we  rotted  years 
Far  from  the  sunlight  of  our  soul  and  flesh. 

Here  have  our  corpses  shed  those  gallful  tears 
Of  spite  and  thwarted  hates,  whose  salts  refresh. 

I  have  been  witness  to  thy  speechless  fears, 
I  saw  thy  noiseless  struggles  in  thy  mesh — 

Of  iron  and  wood :  and  saw  thy  trembling  head 

Kissed  by  the  worms,  like  mine,  till  they  were  fed. 
19*  217 


2i8  DIALOGUE. 

Now  art  thou  bone,  so  I,  and  peace  at  last 

Is  left  us  for  a  period  to  enjoy. 
Our  hard  stiff  ribs  resist — though  time  flies  fast, 

No  vermine  can  our  skeletons  destroy, 
Till  we  have  told  our  stories  of  the  past ! 

Then  can  yon  grutching  toads  await  their  cloy, 
For  days  must  fade  before  our  remnants  rust, 
For  years  must  pass  ere  we  again  are  dust. 


Brother,  the  life  I  left,  its  light  and  sun, 
Its  pains  and  pleasures  I  do  not  regret : 

All  things  have  end,  all  joys  when  erst  begun 
Please  and  delight ; — they  last  not  longly,  yet — 

Wise  is  the  man  who  takes  them  one  by  one, 
Learning  to  prize  their  sweet,  and  time  forget, 

Live  for  his  day,  however  short,  and  curse 

A  phantom  future  with  a  shroud  and  hearse. 

Alas  !  I  did  not,  and  my  fleeting  time 
Was  spent  in  assays  to  acquire  and  learn 

The  mysteries  of  loreful  prose  and  rhyme  : 

Knowledge  and  science  brought  me  no  return. 

Nights  passed  in  toil,  wanderings  in  ev'ry  clime 
Comforted  little  : — while  for  more  would  yearn — 

My  thirsty  brain,  until  this  coffin's  clasp 

Taught  me  one  secret  which  I  ne'er  could  grasp 


The  plans  and  projects  that  I  formed  on  earth, 
My  endless  strife  to  make  a  name  and  mark, 

The  thoughts  and  fancies  which  I  deemed  of  worth, 
The  constant  stress  upon  my  talent  spark, 


DIALOGUE. 

What  have  they  proven  ?  why  their  forced  birth  ? 

Can  they  give  light  unto  us  dead  and  dark ; 
Can  fame  bring  succor  to  this  den  of  dirt, 
Can  my  poor  bones  their  freedom  now  assert  ? 


My  science  can  avail  me  not,  and  gold, 

Great  piles  of  bright  new  gold  I  used  to  prize, 

Cannot  relieve  our  withering  frames  from  cold 
Nor  fill  the  void  of  dull  and  vanished  eyes  : 

And  yet  I  loved  my  opulence  untold, 

My  soul  was  poisoned  by  the  metal's  ties  ; 

I  kept  it,  with  it  did  no  mortal  good : — 

The  same  who  took  it  made  my  coffin's  wood  ! 

So  had  I  choice  again  I  would  not  care 
To  taste  of  life  a  second  bitter  draught ; 

If  it  were  given  to  me  unaware — 

It  might  be  sourer  than  the  one  I  quaffed — 

Earth  air  is  fresh,  while  here  the  fetid  air — 
Poisons  the  grumous  vermine  at  each  waft, 

Yet  I  prefer  this  sombre,  solemn  life 

To  one  above  of  ceaseless  cark  and  strife. 


Brother,  the  listening  skeleton  replied, 

Thy  useless  life  was  not  like  mine  but  sad  : 

I  owned  no  gold,  nor  lo.ved  I  lore,  defied — 
All  laws,  religions,  creeds  both  good  and  bad, 

I  lived  for  pleasure,  and  by  pleasure  died, 

A  better  life  than  thine,  more  glad,  more  mad, 

A  life  of  revelries,  of  song,  and  mirth  ; 

A  life  of  thirty  years  thy  sixty's  worth  !; 


219 


220  DIALOGUE. 

Mocking  eternity,  deriding  pain, 

I  lived  to  feed  each  lustful  passion's  whim  : 

I  lived  to  cool  my  hot  lascivious  brain 

With  fragrant  maidens,  round  of  torse  and  limb. 

The  fairest  beauties  of  fair  France  and  Spain 
Loved  me  with  frenzy,  while  my  joyous  hymn 

With  winy  voice  chaunted  Love's  languid  sighs, 

The  coral  kiss,  the  gleam  of  ravished  eyes ! 

The  white-skinned  Saxon,  nackered  by  the  moon 
With  long  gold  tresses  of  divinest  ray, 

The  ebon  virgin  or  the  octaroon — 

With  supple  dove-like  motions  of  dismay, 

The  hot-eyed  maid  from  Venice's  lagoon, 
The  Russ,  the  Greek,  or  Cairo's  street  almee, 

All  who  had  youth  and  song  to  swell  my  feast, 

I  cherished  as  my  happy  years  increased. 


Erosian  ecstasies  from  sweet-tongued  girls — 
Purpled  with  blushes,  standing  statuesque, 

Shading  my  hot  brow  with  long  ombrous  curls 
Of  deep  gold-violet,  hueful,  vague,  Doresque, 

Demulcent  bitings  from  sharp  teeth  of  pearls, 
Music  of  sobs,  of  cadenced  notes  grotesque, 

Splendors  of  flesh,  splendors  of  dreams  had  I, 

Brother  I  never  thought  that  I  must  die  ! 

My  ferial  days  were  sweet  as  were  my  nights, 
I  spanielled  to  no  social  laws,  but  led — 

A  life  of  utter  Spring  ;  of  grand  delights, 

Cheered  by  rich  wines  of  gold,  rich  wines  of  red. 


DIALOGUE.  221 

No  thought  of  death  e'er  harried  me  by  frights 

When  fondling  some  rare  beauty's  tresses,  spread — 
In  matted  wantonness ; — then  fears  of  tombs 
Would  fade  like  dreams,  in  revels  of  perfumes  ! 

Yet  churls  warred  with  me  in  their  wrath  and  zeal 
Some  woman's  tottering  virtue  to  defend  : 

Many  beneath  my  bitter  laughing  steel 

Fell  on  the  croft,  and  met  their  timely  end  : 

Till  my  day  came  ;  and  I  was  forced  to  feel 

The  dastard  thrust  of  one  who  called  me  friend  : 

My  soul  set  free ;  now  shrink  my  bones  and  rot, 

Cloistered  within  the  horrors  of  this  spot ! 

Brother,  a  righteous  God  saw  fit  to  save 

Our  inert  bones  from  torture  and  from  flame, 

Despite  the  terrors  of  this  humid  grave 
'Tis  better  than  a  ceaseless  Hell  of  shame  : 

I  for  my  part  no  other  tomb  would  crave, 
Tell  me  !  art  thou  contented  with  the  same? 

The  other  mused  awhile  and  murmured  "yes." 

God  for  this  answer  loved  their  souls  no  less. 


SOULS     OF    FLOWERS. 

SEE  yon  wondrous  wild  slumbrous  red  roses  that  fill 
All  the  air  with  their  rare  rich  perfume ; 

See  each  petal  like  metal  that  bendeth  so  still 

In  the  dark  shade  of  wood-glade  and  hill. 

Will  the  white  moon  appear  soon  to  thrill 

All  the  trembling  assembling  grey  torrents  of  gloom  ? 

There  are  bright-rays  and  night-rays  that  revel  in  air, 

To  contend  and  to  blend  with  the  flowers; 
The  red  roses  in  poses  of  fear  and  despair 
Seem  to  shrink  from  the  wink  and  the  glare, 
Of  the  Night's  immense  shadow's  dense  stare 

And  seem  sighing  and  djing  for  moonlier  powers. 

So  the  muser,  the  chooser  of  beautiful  things, 
All  the  men  born  of  ken  and  of  thought ; 

Rose-like  slumber  and  number   each    time  the  moon 
springs 

Through  the  shrouds  of  Night's  clouds,  mist  befraught, 

Till  its  rays  bless  the  phase  of  minds,  taught, 
Not  to  hate  or  to  wait  for  the  song  that  it  sings. 

And  each  chalice,  flower-palace,  is  in  my  belief 
But  a  hushed,  fragrance-crushed  poet's  soul; 

For  when  in  bloom,  its  perfume  pervades  ev'ry  leaf 

For  its  longs  for  a  song's  sweet  relief, 

Being  haunted,  Night  taunted  by  grief, 

And  it  swayeth  and  prayeth  for  lights  that  condole. 


CORDOVA. 


IN  the  vale  of  Andalusia, 

On  the  Guadalquivir's  strands  : 
'Neath  the  shadows  of  the  Sierra, 

Cordova  forsaken  stands. 


Houses  white  as  snow  when  falling 
Blend  and  mingle  with  the  hue — 

Purest  cobalt,  clear  and  dazzling, 
Of  the  Heaven's  seas  of  blue. 


Lost  within  a  maze  of  lanelets, 

Alleys  tortuous  and  steep, 
Rests  the  wondrous  Mosque-Cathedral, 

Burdened  by  an  age  of  sleep. 

Stern  and  mute  with  portals  whitened, 
By  the  griefs  of  centuries  crushed  : 

Stands  it  mourning  in  its  grandeur 
Hopes  all  thwarted,  memories  hushed. 

Yet  it  dreams  of  by-gone  glories, 
When  the  month  of  Rhamadan 

Lit  its  mammoth  naves  in  splendor, 
When  the  holy  rites  began. 

223 


224  CORDOVA. 

Dreams  it  of  the  nights  and  mornings 
When  sweet  incense  filled  its  halls, 

When  the  golden  lamps  were  burning 
Eighteen  hundred  from  its  walls  ! 

When  the  Caliph  in  the  Mihrab 

Marvel  of  the  Moorish  art, 
Read  the  Koran's  saintly  precepts, 

Dear  to  every  Moslem  heart  ! 

When  the  hosts  of  turbaned  Cadis 
All  in  gorgeous  robes  arrayed, 

With  the  old  white-bearded  Imans, 
In  the  perfumed  chapels  prayed  ! 

There  its  thousand  polished  pillars 
Carved  in  rare  and  precious  stone, 

Jasper,  lazuli  and  agate 

'Neath  the  glare  of  torches  shone  ! 

Then  with  bodies  bent  towards  Mecca, 
Then  the  vast  and  mighty  throng 

Sang  praise-paeans  to  Mahomet, 
Till  the  Mihrab  reeled  with  song  ! 

Then  the  troupes  of  young  Sultanas 

Veiled  in  izars  velvet-sleek, 
Played  around  thy  orange-gardens, 

Dark  of  eye,  and  red  of  cheek. 

Then  the  eunuchs  watched  and  guarded 
Toying  with  their  sharp  kandjars, 

Chatting  'neath  the  moon's  white  crescent 
'Neath  the  shade  of  Alcazars  ! 


CORDOVA.  225 

Then  oh  glorious,  grand  Cordova 
Didst  thou  hope  and  live  and  love, 

Gold  and  verdure  all  around  thee, 
Cloudless  skies  of  smiles  above. 

Songs  and  revels,  shouts  and  laughter, 
Triumphs,  trophies,  endless  mirth, 

Games  and  festivals  succeeding — 
Others  of  an  equal  worth. 

Now,  fair  city,  all  has  vanished, 

Dull  and  desolate  dost  seem  : 
While  thy  great  and  cherished  mem'ries 

Haunt  thee  like  a  phantom  dream. 

Through  thy  crooked  lanes  and  alleys 

Search  I  vestiges  in  vain — • 
Of  that  splendid  host  of  shadows 

Formless,  that  besiege  my  brain. 

Cordova  long  hast  thou  slumbered, 

Time  shall  dry  thy  bitter  tears, 
God  shall  give  thee  for  thy  sufferings 

Life  again  in  other  spheres. 


ON    THE     BEACH. 

THE  brown,  red-sanded  beach  was  still 

Dead  still : 

The  kisses  of  the  wave — 
Plashing  upon  the  sea-weed,  chill, 
Murmurless  rippled;  while  the  thoughts  that  rave 
In  brains  tempestuous,  would  blend  and  thrill 
All  through  my  frame  that  lept — 
As  stealthily  I  crept, 

Brave, 

Where  the  sad  wave 
Kissed  the  red-sanded  beach  so  still — 

She  sat  upon  that  beach,  her  gaze 

Fond  gaze — 
Riveted  on  his  face  : 
Her  glance,  a  glance  of  doting  praise 
Was  pure  and  loveful  as  was  all  her  race, 

His  arm  had  clasped  her,  and  the  damning  rays 
Of  stars  on  scene  like  this 
Shone  blandly:  while  my  hiss 

Base, 

Echoed  each  embrace, 
There  'neath  the  quiet  moon-tide's  blaze  ! 

Closer  crept  I  upon  that  beach 

Wild  beach  ! 

Witness  of  harlots'  deeds  : 
My  wrong  a  lesson  ached  to  teach, 
226 


LANDSCAPE    OF  FLESIL 


227 


My  hands  now  reeked  with  hot  and  bloody  beads  .  .  . 
Each  jealous  hand  mark  well !  each  hand  each,  each, 
Then- all  again  was  still. 
No  wind,  however  shrill 

Pleads,— 

When  holjest  creeds 
Are  severed  by  a  woman's  breach  ! 

The  brown,  red-sanded  beach  was  still 

Dead  still. 

The  kisses  of  the  wave — 
Plashing  upon  the  sea-weed,  chill, 
Murmurless  rippled  ;  while  the  thoughts  that  rave 
In  brains  tempestuous,  would  blend  and  thrill 
What  I  had  done  was  good 
And  calmly  grand  I  stood, 

-    Grave, 

Where  the  sad  wave, 
Kissed  the  red-sanded  beach,  dead  still ! 


LANDSCAPE     OF    FLESH. 

IN  dreams  I  saw  a  monstrous,  marvellous  sight 

Landscape' of  terror  :  palling  view  of  pain : 
I  would  have  shuddered  in  the  day's  broad  light 

If  such  a  fancy  had  disturbed  my  brain. 

Scene  that  I  never  can  forget  again 
Atrocity  of  thought  which  every  night 

Will  haunt  me  with  an  ever-surging  bane  ! 


228  LANDSCAPE    OF  FLESH. 

Within  an  ignored  world  my  soul  was  led 
Above  all  darkness,  high  in  floods  of  space  : 

Above  the  sun's  great  ball,  fleck-dappled,  red, 
Above  the  stars'  domain,  the  comets'  trace, 
Far  far  above  and  still  above,  my  pace — 

Electric,  reached  a  planet  where  ^the  dead — 
Of  ages  past,  had  found  a  burial  place  ! 


Trillions  of  bodies,  Tartar,  Hebrew,  Greek, 
Races  extinct,  nations  we  know  no  more, 

Profiles  and  faces,  savage,  tame,  and  meek, 
Humanities  defunct,  old  tribes  of  yore : 
All  who  had  perished  on  earth's  globe  before 

Were  congregated  in  this  sphere  unique 
By  God's  great  will  for  reasons  we  ignore. 

Was  it  a  Heaven,  second  life  or  Hell  ? 

Was  it  the  dreaded  spot4  where  souls  await 
Chastisement  for  vile  crimes,  for  doings  fell? 

Was  it  the  land  of  Sleep,  or  Tophet's  gate  ? 

I  know  not;  but  the  vision  I  narrate 
Of  weird  sad  horror  will  all  dreams  excel : 

And  God  preserve  my  corpse  from  equal  fate ! 

I  roamed  within  a  hideous  land,  and  saw 

That  ground  and  soil  of  human  flesh  were  made 
I  trod  on  trembling  bosoms  hot  and  raw, 

At  times  obliged  through  viscera  to  wade. 

And,  tottering  onward,  agonized,  I  prayed, 
While  towering  rocks  of  flesh  devoid  of  flaw 

Loomed  'fore  my  gaze  in  symmetry  arrayed  ! 


LANDSCAPE    OF  FLESH. 


229 


Down  from  their  swaying  heights  great  floods  of  tears 
White  briny  tears  in  regal  tumult  rolled  : 

A  cataract  of  grief,  all  shed  in  years 

Forever  gone :  drops  precious  as  new  gold, 
Compelled  to  dash  and  plash  in  torrents  cold 

Over  those  fleshful  cliffs  in  doomed  spheres 
Awful  to  think  of — hideous  to  behold  ! 


Beyond,  I  saw  a  vast  rage-fuming  sea — 

Of  crimson  bloods:  thick  waves  with  ceaseless  roar 

Broke  with  a  brutal  savageness  of  glee 
Upon  a  beach  of  human  nail — a  shore 
Besprent  with  jagged  teeth,  grim  shells,  all  sore, 

Gnashing  a  hymn  of  ivory  melody, 
Timed  by  the  deep  swift  bubbling  tides  of  gore ! 

A  half-light  reigned,  above,  great  lurid  skies 

Of  burnished  skin,  shone  sleekly  on  the  scene : 
Leagues  upon  leagues,  grand,  vast,  while  staring  eyes 

Of  colors  two,  in  millions,  blue  and  green 

Shed  a  pale  glassy  flicker  to  survene 
And  lume  the  flesh-crags  or  to  harmonize 

With  tints  cadaverous  that  served  as  screen  ! 


Huge  pools  of  bile  and  marrow  here  and  there, 
Nourished  dwarfed  trees  with  solid  trunks  of  bone, 

While  from  their  boughs  hung  leaves  of  fibrous  hair 
Willowy,  gnarly,  and  all  groundward  prone  : 
Some  seemed  the  tresses  of  a  hag  or  crone 

Others  the  silkier  locks  of  maidens  fair, 

All  blooming  in  this  hybrid  nameless  zone  ! 


230 


LANDSCAPE    OF  FLESH. 


Gazing  stood  I  with  pain  and  wonder  mute, 

Striving  to  shun  the  skin-sky's  sullen  light: 
Nescient  and  cowed,  but  curious  as  a  brute 

I  could  not  yet  conceive  the  awful  sight. 

Nor  feel  the  power  of  God's  most  boundless  might, 
A  will  of  iron  which  nothing  could  refute 

Forced  me  to  long  for  fleshless  air  and  night. 

No  soul,  no  sound,  no  welcome  step  was  heard 
Save  time  to  time  a  ghost-wail  from  the  sky, 

Trilled  from  the  hoarse  throat  of  a  weird  odd  bird — 
Which  featherless  and  gaunt  soared  moaning  by, 
I  saw  it  swoop  to  clutch  a  wart,  then  fly — 

Over  the  long  hair  branches  which  it  stirred, 
Then  dive  into  the  blood  sea  with  a  sigh.   .   .   . 

Night's  ash  veil  fell,  terrific,  solemn  gloom 

Aroused  me:  while  the  eye-stars  blinked  and  blazed: 

Then  woke  to  me  the  grandeur  of  this  tomb 
Its  horrid  splendors,  wild,  sublime,  bedazed 
My  fear-chilled  heart,  as  sank  I  down  amazed 

Musing  on  wicked  worlds  I  left — their  doom 
Inevitably  fatal — till  I  crazed.   .   .   . 

The  forms  and  faces  that  I  loved  on  earth 

Must  they  when  dead  in  such  a  planet  dwell? 
Must  lips  I  prized  when  once  alert  with  mirth 

Come  also  to  this  livid  horrid  Hell? 

Must  righteous  souls  be  damned  and  doomed  as  well 
Is  there  no  difference  in  a  mortal's  worth? 

No  !  no  !  I  see  that  ghastly  ocean  swell.   .   .   . 


LANDSCAPE    OF  FLESH. 


231 


Its  waves  rise  higher,  God  !   its  red  sprays  burst 
Roughly  upon  the  flesh-cliffs  far  below, 

Each  soul  that  dies  on  earth  is  here  accursed  : 

New  eyes  must  shine  here,  and  new  blood  must  flow, 
Fresh  corpses  and  fresh  bones  new  worlds  bestow 

To  quench  this  howling  ocean's  sateless  thirst, 
My  place  with  others  has  been  marked  I  know  ! 

Reeking  with  pain,  I  struggled  on  and  fled, — 

Odors  of  clotted  blood  pursued  my  sense: 
Round,  round  the  hateful  spot  with  dizzy  head 

I  rushed,  and  in  my  agonies  intense, 

Dashed  through  the  tear-falls  and  their  brine-mist 

dense 
On  !  on  !  I  living  in  a  land  of  dead  ! 

Till  worn  I  woke : — 'twas  but  a  dream  immense !  . 


THE    END. 


0357 


